Paper Cuts, Flashlights, and Toothpaste
by Aro
Summary: Complete! In which Sam learns just how expressive the mute can be, especially when that mute is his brother.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

My first try at _Supernatural_. Please give it a try.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"Ow!" Dean Winchester hissed, sucking on the tip of his index finger that had just lost a fight with the ever so sharply edged paper of doom. Sitting propped up against pillows on an unmade bed, he had been flipping through his father's tattered notebook when the edge of a paper mercilessly sliced through the skin of the said finger, tauntingly drawing just a drop of blood. His younger brother sat in a worn out green chair across the room from him, his opened laptop resting on the chair's arm.

"You manage hard blows to the head without as much as a grunt, yet cry out because of a _paper cut_?" Sam Winchester asked dubiously, his tired gaze briefly flickering from the glowing laptop's screen to his brother.

Dean looked mildly insulted. "Have you ever experienced a paper cut, Sam? It hurts like a bitch."

"So you'd rather get a baseball bat upside the head than a tiny, baby of a paper cut?"

"Hell yeah." Sam shot him a skeptical look, one brow arched appraisingly. "What? You get more sympathy and attention from those cute little nurses in the ER with a head injury than with a paper cut."

The brunette rolled his eyes, lazily scrolling down Google search results on the laptop.

As always, life was going by just ridiculously for the brothers. They had a haunted house mystery to solve without anything to go on. This was proving more difficult than originally thought. Whatever happened to the necessary information easily and coincidentally falling right into their hands? It sucked not to have the right information spoon fed to them.

"Ow—dammit, Sam!" Aggravated, Dean got to his feet, carelessly tossing the notebook onto the bed behind him. "Get your coat, we're making a house call."

Sam closed the laptop, rather gratefully since all the searches came up futile, but didn't move from his seat. "Dean, it's after midnight."

"Yeah, so?" Immune to any reasoning (unless it cruelly involved his brother's infamous puppy dog look) the elder slipped on his leather jacket. His hands went up to the collar, absent-mindedly popping the back of it up. Before Sam could even think about opening his mouth to protest more, he put up a hand. "Like you were really planning on getting any sleep."

Considering the increase of his nightmares that were anything but lollipops and candy canes, the comment was harsh, but Sam brushed it off, nearly unaffected. "Jerk."

"Yeah, yeah, bitch, tell me more about it on the way to the car."

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Needless to say, Dean wasn't in the mood to deal with their usual "playmates." He stalked up the brick pathway to the house, impatiently glaring back at Sam, who purposely lagged behind and watched with an amused smirk, when he reached the stone stairs leading to the porch. Even though he was clad in the leather jacket, a blue and white button down plaid shirt, a white undershirt, and jeans, he shivered when the lightest breeze brushed past him.

"Why is it always the creepy old abandoned houses that are haunted?" Sam mused out loud, peering up at the large house through his long brown fringe, furrowing his brow. His hands were shoved into the deep pockets of his worn out jeans, and his oversized, dark colored hoodie stuck to his lanky form. With a sigh, he followed his brother up the stairs. The porch was littered with garbage, vandalized with graffiti, and the windows were busted. The sharp edges of the broken glass glistened ominously in the moonlight, glaring expectantly at the brothers. Sam shuddered.

"Yeah, it's really lacking that homey feeling, huh?" Up until now, an off white screen door had been left open a few inches, but when Dean leaned forward to grab the thin, white metal knob it slammed shut almost angrily. Dean arched a brow, looking back at Sam. "_And_ hospitality, geesh."

"Guess it's time for the welcoming committee."

"Huh?"

"Your foot."

"Really? 'Cause I just thought we'd wait out here for the poltergeist to invite us in for some tea." Once again, Dean moved forward, extending his arm to open the screen door, but this time it suddenly whisked open, crashing harshly against his fingers. Cursing, he jerked back, his green eyes now shooting blazing daggers perilously at the door. Alarmed, Sam grabbed his brother's shoulder, his eyes darting around cautiously. "I think you were right."

"About what?" Dean shrugged Sam's hand off his shoulder.

"The _welcoming committee_, genius." His sharp words were accented with the sound of his foot getting acquainted with the wooden door through the bitter screen. The rusted hinges gave out with the sudden force and the door practically fell apart. Dean's top lip curved into a smug smirk. "Now, was that welcoming or what?"

Sam didn't say anything. He stepped past the shorter Winchester, kicking aside door debris, and finally, he took a deep breath and entered the ominous house. Unfortunately for him, a brass doorknob rolled under his foot, and he stumbled forward. To keep himself from falling, he grabbed at the wall, knocking a dust covered, oval framed mirror off the wall. Needless to say, he still managed to lose his balance, and fell to the ground along with the ill-fated mirror. He quickly turned away so no flying shards would nick any exposed skin.

Dean let out a low whistle as he made his way in, a rock salt loaded gun grasped in one hand, a flashlight in the other. "Ooh boy, it's going to be a long night." He looked down at Sam, nudging the prone boy's leg with his foot. "You all right there, Captain Klutz?"

"Yeah, but I broke a mirror." What's seven years of bad luck added to six hundred?

"Put it on our tab." He waited until his brother was back on his feet before he continued walking down the hallway. He stopped when he reached the staircase that led upstairs. Across from the staircase was another room. "Hey, I'll check upstairs, you stay down here. If anything attacks, just call for me and then stop, trip, and roll way."

Sam wrinkled up his nose, practically lost on a retort as he walked into the next room, a flashlight leading his way through the darkness. "Shut up." Considering how the outside door's actions made it clear they weren't wanted there, he began asking himself how they made it this far. He slipped Dean's precious homemade EMF reader out of his pocket. He scoffed at it after turning it on. "Yeah, _I'm_ the nerd."

The next few minutes proved only to be uneventful, which struck Sam as odd. Wasn't there supposed to be blunt objects getting whipped ruthlessly at his head? Instead it was dark, boring, and silent except for the sounds Dean's footsteps from above him. With a defeated sigh, he turned off the silent EMF, sticking it back into his pocket. If whatever hadn't wanted them into the house wasn't downstairs, where…

"Dean." Sam's brown eyes darted up at the ceiling, where he no longer heard the creaking floorboards. Now, instead he heard a muffled, strangled cry, and panic struck at his heart. He hurried out of the room and raced upstairs, calling out his brother's name. Something told him that the cause of Dean's cry wasn't from a paper cut.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"Dude, where the hell's my EMF?" Dean stopped halfway through the upstairs hallway; setting down his flashlight on a small, dust covered end table. With his free hand, he checked his pockets, trying to remember where he put it. Now, he recalled setting it down on the dashboard of the car before starting the ignition… Did he grab it? His empty pockets laughed at him—obviously he hadn't. "Oh, fuck me."

"_Oh, fuck me_." A voice echoed from behind him, and Dean whipped around, his finger tight against the trigger of his gun. The only thing behind him was a closed door. Was that an offer or a mimic? With the said gun aimed at it, he reached out his hand to open the door, but before his fingertips could even touch the cool brass knob, the door slowly opened, its old hinges screeching with age.

"Well, would you look at that?" Despite himself, Dean chuckled, remembering how hostile things had seemed just moments earlier. Now there almost seemed to be an anxious, vulnerable atmosphere. He quickly shrugged it off, and moved away momentarily to grab his flashlight, but it was no longer there. "You've got to be kidding me." An imprint left from the flashlight was set in the thick dust on the table, so at least Dean could reason that he wasn't going crazy. Yet.

"_Well, would you look at…? Me._" The same, eerie voice rasped from the mysterious room. Dean glanced over at the stairs, wondering if he should call for Sam, but that idea was dismissed quicker than it occurred to him. Clearing his throat, he pushed the door the rest of the way open, and took a step into the—cold, cold room!

Now would be a good time to get out, Dean realized. Now would be a good time to get Sam, or at least steal his flashlight, spray a little holy water, light a match or two, and _get the fuck out! _A small, nearly inaudible click was heard, followed by a burst of bright light. Flinching, Dean put his arm up to cover his eyes, his other arm still outstretched. He cocked the gun. At the sound of that, the door behind him shut quietly. Too quietly.

Dean got served.

"Shit." A strong force shoved him back hard. Even with the moonlight seeping through the broken window, it was still far too dark for his liking. His gun was knocked out of his hand. He never heard it fit the floor. The light, he gathered, was his missing flashlight faded. Long, bony fingers locked around his neck, not tightly, but not loosely. An intense pain flared up from behind his Adam's apple, and with his mind only focused on the pain, he let out a manly war cry, or so he figured.

Almost as if on cue, Sam barged through the door, his arms crossed protectively across his chest. He let out a sharp gasp at the sudden slap of cold air, but that didn't stop him from blindly shooting at the dark figure that appeared to be strangling his brother. When the rock salt blasted past the creature, he flung his flashlight at it, and with an almost aggravated sigh, the beast—ghost—_whatever_ disappeared.

Dean fell to his knees, coughing. "Fine!" He gasped out before Sam could even think about asking. "I'm fine. Fantastic. Just dandy." His throat hurt like hell, and his voice faltered, sounding almost hoarse like he had a cold. He decided it was all right that Sam helped him to his feet, since little brothers do need to feel like they're being helpful sometimes.

"We're getting you out of here." Sam told him, his tone persistence and stern. His jaw tightened with determination. For a second, he reminded Dean of their father. With his hand pressed against the small of his brother's back, Sam lead them out of the house, not bothering to find and pick up their flashlights or Dean's gun.

"_Me_, what about you, Mr. '_Oh, I'm going to prance merrily into a haunted house and trip over a freakin' doorknob_?' Geesh, and who do you think you are trying to _flashlight_ a demon to death, Sam, 'cause—"

Annoyance flickered in Sam's brown eyes. "Dean, _shut up_!"

Dean complied with a croaky and sarcastic "yes sir," and he would've added a salute if his hands were rubbing at his flushed neck. It wasn't until they were in the comfort zone of the Impala when Sam noticed the drying blood on Dean's lips. Unconcerned, Dean pushed him away, both mentally and physically, and started the car.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

It was around noon when Dead gave up on trying to sleep. He blamed it on the lumpy, uncomfortable mattress, and the light scent of bleach that mixed with the hotel's already stale odor. There were multi-colored glow in the dark stars and moons super-glued to his white plastic leather-covered headboard. Where the hell did they find these places?

Sam slept peacefully, however awkwardly, on the other small bed, sprawled out on his back, already tangled up in the sheets. The television was turned on, although on mute, and Dean guessed the remote was trapped—probably willingly, too--somewhere under Sam.

How does he do it? Dean wondered, glimpsing over at his sleeping brother as he quietly walked to the bathroom, holding his toothbrush and toothpaste in one hand. How does Sam manage to look so peaceful in the little sleep he manages? How could someone who has been through and seen so much look so innocent and carefree? He felt a tinge of envy. Then he remembered about Sam's nightmares, and presto, envy is gone.

"Mornin' boys." Dean whispered to his darling teeth as he wet his toothbrush. Sure, Sam was given the freak power of premonitions, but Dean? Was given the power of awesome teeth. Those babies were as straight and as white as can be. Don't stand too close to them though, the sun can reflect right off those bad boys and blind you faster than you can sigh, 'what magnificent teeth!'

After brushing his teeth, he discarded his shirt, fully intending to take a long, hot relaxing shower, and maybe even hum a few Metallica songs while soaping up his lovely body. Remembering that Sammy was still sleeping in the next room and the bathroom door was wide open, Dean turned around to close it.

Click.

That was the sound of the door clicking shut before he even lifted a finger. "Aw, man." The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge. He reached for his toothbrush, wishing he had brought in a gun, or three. He mentally kicked himself repeatedly with steel toe boots—how could he not bring in any protection? His father taught—_trained_—him better than that.

It happened again. He felt the fingers back around his neck, and was ready to fight back but when he saw them: eyes. Sad, depressing, soul wrenching eyes that desperately pleaded out to him. He felt paralyzed, unable to move, but felt that pain that brought him down on his knees. His toothbrush fell from his numb fingers and clattered to the tiled floor.

"Sam!" He managed to whisper, his voice meager. He tried again, his urgent whisper too weak to even penetrate through the thin walls. "_Sam_." It pained him to speak, but that wasn't enough to stop him. He tore his gaze away from the dominating creature's. He called out his brother's name again, this time through a wet wheeze. Blood and saliva dripped from his lips.

Where the hell was Sam? Was his watch broken, or what? No, really, where was Sam? He was supposed to gallop in, his shiny, luscious hair flowing behind him in a dramatic, heroic way. Realization struck harder than the pain. When did he come to expect his brother to come to his rescue? He was supposed to rescue his brother, one sarcastic comment at a time.

Although only seconds were passing, it felt like minutes, and Dean finally had enough. Without a weapon in sight, he reached up for his toothpaste, and with a great effort, he pushed forward against the creature, surprising it, and lashing out at it with the mint toothpaste. It shot out from the tube like a missile with a mission, baby!

The creature hissed loudly, like a clear growl, and let go of its grip. It seemed too happy to let go, and it backed away. Dean got to his feet quickly, staring at it in confusion. It was suddenly almost too eager to get away, but before he could even whip out anymore of those fantastic quick thinking moves, it disappeared.

"Dean?" A groggy voice asked from outside. There was a tap at the bathroom door. "Is everything all right in there?" Even though he sounded not even half awake, the concern was evident. Dean opened his mouth to response, but not even a whisper passed his lips. When he realized this, he brought a hesitant hand to his throat, making choking sounds as he tried to talk, cry, scream—_just make a noise_!

"Shit." He mouthed, his throat sore, and his chest tight and heavy with confusion and anxiety. The door swung open, and Sam stumbled in, like he had expected it to be locked. He looked at his shirtless brother, waiting for an explanation.

"What happened? Is everything all right?" He asked, not yet realizing what had just happened. "Is that---blood?" He took half a step closer, squinting at the blood that had dripped from Dean's opened mouth and down his chest. "Are you okay?" The brunette asked, his voice trembling when Dead just continued to stare at him blankly, his eyes cloudy. "Answer me!"

Dean opened his mouth, but no sound would come out, not even for Sammy. He shrugged helplessly, not knowing what to say. Well, that wasn't the hard part—there wasn't anything he could say. He just stared at his brother hard, mentally screaming, "_some punk ass bitch just robbed me of my voice_!" He hoped that maybe Sam happened to be a mind reader too.

"Shit." The younger Winchester mumbled when it finally dawned on him what had happened. Okay, so, he didn't know the details, but he pretty much got the message: Dean, his sarcastic, wiseass, big mouth of an older brother, was suddenly a mute. He wasn't sure if the gods were smiling down at him, or if this was a sign of the Apocalypse.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪


	2. Chapter 2

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Sam was at a loss at what to do. He stood alone in the hotel bathroom, looking for any signs. The only thing on the ground other than grim was Dean's discarded shirt, and an empty tube of toothpaste. He kneeled down, carefully picking up the tube, inspecting it. Didn't he just buy this the other day? He looked behind his shoulder into the other room, where a fully clothed Dean sat hunched over on the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. "You attacked it with _toothpaste_? It's meant to kill bad breath, not demons."

In response to his brother's oh so witty and quirky comment, Dean waved one special finger around without even opening his eyes. Right now, the oldest Winchester was trying to figure out how he let such a thing happen. As soon as that creature appeared, he should've spun around and pistol-whipped its sorry ass. But no, he had stupidly put his defenses down, and because of that, he was now toothpasteless, and, of course, voiceless.

"We're going to the library." Sam mumbled to himself after so long of pacing back and forth in the small bathroom. He stopped in the doorway, pensively scratching his head while still looking down. "We'll do more research, and we'll figure this out." Dean's eyes hesitantly opened. He looked up at his younger brother, unconvinced because optimism isn't a family trait. "You'll be singing in no time." Sam promised wholeheartedly, his eyes gleaming with hope.

Yeah, and that makes sense since Dean's already a singing type of guy. He can't help it but to burst into show tunes when the mood strikes. Right. Dean doesn't say anything, but this time it's not because he can't. He doesn't want to do anymore research—he wants to find the voice theft and tear it a new asshole. _Figures it picked the better voice,_ Dean says to himself, resisting a smirk.

Within ten minutes, they're in the Impala, and Sam still in the passenger's seat. Clenching his jaw, he worriedly glances sideways at his brother, wishing he had just let drive. When he had put his hand out for the keys, Dean slowly went to hand them to him, but stopped halfway, jingled them tauntingly, and then walked over to the driver's side of the car, a little kick in his step.

It takes three trips around the same block for Sam to realize that they're going around in circles. He waits for Dean to do it two more times. "You have no idea where the library is, do you?" Hell, he doesn't even know the name of the town they're in. Dean stares straight ahead, but after half a minute, he gives one quick, curt shake of the head. "Pull over here." The brunette orders, pointing. "I'm going to ask for directions." Dean gives him an exasperated look but obeys—for now.

Conveniently, a woman is jogging besides her poodle down the sidewalk. Sam steps out of the car, almost scraping the bottom of the door against the curb to Dean's horror, and waves at her, politely asking where the local library is. He listens carefully, nodding his head when appropiate, while the white dog yaps at his feet.

Inside the car, Dean lets out a sharp whoosh of air, and leans back in his seat, his brow creased with sheer annoyance. He so would've found the library on his own if Sam hadn't ruined his concentration. He shifts uncomfortably, too anxious for the day, and week, to get over with. He shifts again, but this time something catches his eye—his EMF reader peeking out of Sam's hoodie.

_I am going to kill him_. Dean gapes, and knocks Snuggles off from #1 on his "Hunt & Kill" list. He bumps Sam up. Why the hell would Sam, who criticized his beautiful homemade invention, take it? What a hypocrite.

"We have to go back down about two blocks, and then turn left. It's on Vine Street." The door flies open, once again just missing the curb, and Sam climbs in, rattling off the direction. "What?" He asks, being greeted with a glare. Dean tries to clear his throat to speak, but once again, is powerless to do so. A metallic taste hits his mouth—blood. Ignoring it, he stops trying to use his voice box, and decides to lean down, grabbing the EMF from the hoodie.

"This." He mouths, and then he kisses it, and nonchalantly polishes the screen against his clothed breast. "Mine." He mouths the word slowly for emphasis.

With a clueless shrug, Sam chuckles, not thinking too much about it now. "Freak." The tables were definitely turning now.

Dean flicks a stray penny at his head.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

If there was one thing Sam wasn't used it, it was silence, especially when in the company of Dean. He sat in the library, flipping through books of mythical creatures, his eyes skimming for keywords that would aid them. He couldn't help but to relax in the silent flow of the library, too used to having Dean mouthing off to the shushing librarian, or just being his loud self in general.

"Can I help you with anything?" A gentle voice from behind him interrupted Sam's tranquil thoughts. He shut the useless book, and turned around to see that a woman approached his brother. Dean had spent the last half hour going through old newspapers—when Sam had instructed him to help him carry books to the table for him to go through, the elder brother merely walked right past him, already doing his own thing.

Dean's lips parted slightly, and the only thing that passed through them was air. Sam noted the brief flash of confusion in Dean's slightly paler than usual face, and saw that he nearly looked taken back. He got over it quickly, and shook his head with a small, apologetic smile. The scene almost made Sam's oversized heart melt.

Minutes later, Sam was going through another book, but stopped when a slip of paper swayed down from above and landed on his hand. He picked it up, not needing to know who wrote the scribbled words on it. _We're going back to the house_. He shook his head, pushing the paper away. He needed to go back to the textbook. He needed to find the answer.

"Did _you_ find anything?" Sam asked through a hiss when Dean sat down next to him and started kicking at the leg of his chair repeatedly. His voice was a little too loud, and caused the woman who had earlier asked if Dean needed her assistance to turn around.

"What are you guys looking for?" She asked, walking over to their table. Her heels echoed though out the small room. She seemed like a friendly woman, with light brown hair pulled back away from her face, and looked around Dean's age. "I've been working here for some time now, I'm sure—"

"We're actually looking for some local, historic information." Sam interrupted, a little too eagerly. He couldn't help it—the books weren't proving to be of any value, and Dean had shrugged at his earlier, loudly asked question.

The woman smiled, picking up one of the books Sam had gone though. "You're looking for local information through a book titled _Mythical fabulous creatures: a source book and research guide_?"

Not having expected that, Sam blinked and smiled innocently at her, cocking his head to the side like a puppy that didn't understand their owner's command. "I guess that could be a problem, but these books here are for a paper I'm writing." He leans forward on his elbows, clasping his hands together. "The other information is for more of an, uh, interest of mine."

The woman nodded, not seeming skeptical or suspicious, but interested. "Like what?"

"Haunted houses." It rolled off his tongue easily, so carelessly. Sam's acting skills had improved since _Our Town_, Dean noted. "Know anything about them?"

Something flashed in her eyes, but the smile remained. "Around here? Heavens no!" She laughed lightly, folding her arms across her chest. She shivered, and looked past Sam at Dean, who had started to rub his throat. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" Sam followed her gaze behind his shoulder, and looked at his brother. The silence was just beginning to get uncomfortable.

"No thanks, we've got to get going."

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"Did—does it hurt?" The question was asked once they were settled in the car. Dean had just started the car, and his hands were already tightly gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white. Dean didn't respond—he didn't feel like nodding or shaking his head, or blinking twice for yes, once for no. "Dean?" He wasn't deaf, Sam, just frustrated. "Sorry, man."

This was getting ridiculous. Dean had only been mute for three hours and Sam was already apologizing. What, did he think if he whacked the demon with the flashlight harder this wouldn't have happened?

The tension in the car on the way to the house is thick enough to deflect a bullet. Dean could already feel the strain of being forced to hold in his snide comments, and Sam… well, Sam wasn't exactly longing for them.

The car pulls in front of the house, which didn't seem nearly as threatening as it had early that morning after midnight. It almost looked like an ordinary, rundown house… that steals your voice. The brothers are hesitant to get out of the car. Dean stalls by looking around for something, and Sam pretends to help his brother look for the lost object.

"I think you should stay here." Sam says, breaking the silence. Dean's brows rise to his hairline, and judging by expression on his face, he wasn't too open with that idea. "I'm serious Dean, what if this demon isn't done with you? What if it wants your hair, or your eyes, or _something_?" Wink, nudge.

Dean shudders, imaging the dark beast grabbing fervently at his scalp, "_you have such beautiful hair… can I have it?"_ But what if the creature was indeed finished with whatever it wanted from Dean? It could go after Sam next, and Dean just wouldn't have that. He reaches for the EMF reader. When both boys are out of the Impala, he shoves it softly into Sam's chest.

"You should take it—" He begins to protest but Dean pushes his shoulder in a manner that couldn't be translated into anything other than "dude, shut your cakehole." Honestly, it didn't matter to Dean now, since he didn't plan on splitting up. Not this time, at least. "Oh, look, someone already has kicked the front door open for us." Sam tries to joke, squeezing his freakishly tall frame through the still busted doorway. Huh—the creature didn't even have the decency to clean up after its guests. Perhaps it was too busy sneaking up on other people while they undressed in their bathrooms, or so Dean figured.

At an annoyingly slow pace, the brothers went through the downstairs room, and then moved on up. When they got to the room where Dean had been attacked, Sam picked up the items they had left there earlier, and shrugged at a disbelieving Dean, who had already expected to open a can of kick ass on the demon by now. It was supposed to jump out at them with a frightening "boo" and then they were to defeat it, get Dean's voice back—all before dinner time!

This ghost obviously didn't watch television, or the movies.

Sam looked down at the EMF. He turned it on as soon as he stepped foot in the house, but it still hasn't even made the slightest beep. Before he can even think of throwing the towel it, the small device, does beep! And it beeps again, and again, and Dean grabs a gun from Sam, and snarls when he realizes the clip is missing. _Sonofabitch_! He tries to tell Sam, but his throat just retracts, and he nearly chokes on his own saliva.

"I don't understand this—" Sam starts to say, looking up at Dean, who was holding the useless gun in one hand, and rubbing the base of his neck with the other. "Are you—?" It's suddenly very cold in the room, and a force strikes Sam against the back of his shoulders. The items in his hands fall to the ground, and the frantically beeping EMF scatters half way across the room. The door slams shut, and then flies open, the old hinges giving out. Dean grabs Sam's arm, jerking him out of the flying door's path. It slams heavy against the wall, and then falls over.

"_Get out_!" A loud, deep voice orders, and the cracks in the wall caused from the door shoot up to the ceiling and down to the floor. The only window in the room rattles until the rest of the busted glass falls out.

Despite their current situation, Dean smirks. Did the house have any idea who it was dealing with? These two had battled Houses Gone Bad before, and even stood up to Death, what made it think it was so important?

"You…" Dean's voice suddenly whispers from nowhere. The smell of mint toothpaste hits the air. The brothers exchanged glances. A hand grabs Dean's shoulder and roughly spins him around. Those penetrating sad eyes meet his. A dark, gray figure stands hunched over in front of him, and Sam immediately reaches down for the gun when it points a finger at Dean.

"Stay away from him!" The younger one hisses, pointing the gun directly at the creature's oversized, deformed head. "I swear to god, touch him and…" Die? No, that doesn't sound right. "I'll blast your goddamn head off." Well, it's more Dean-like, but we'll take it. However, Dean shakes his head. He knows the guns are now useless.

"Hush now, Sammy." Dean's voice rasps from the creature's small mouth. Yeah, right, if Sam doesn't listen to his father or brother, like hell he's going to listen to a voice stealing creature… even if its puppy eyed look would give his own a run for his money. "It's time for you to—" A picture frame flies from the wall and smacks the creature right in the forehead.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean would snap at Sam if he had his voice. Sam grabbed the shorter Winchester by his shoulder and raced out of the room, practically dragging Dean behind him. His brother clicked his tongue angrily at him. The walls cracked and dust coated pictures off the walls as they hurried out of the house through the broken wooden door. The screen door snapped shut loudly behind them, like a warning.

Once they're out, Dean pushes Sam, his eyes narrowed forward at him, and a snarl pressed on his lips. He shakes his hands at him, and then gestures the house in a questioning manner. Sam pretends not to understand because he's given that right under the younger brother law.

"We are not going back there until we're better prepared." Maybe it was the poor lighting, but for a second there, Dean thought Sam looked like their father. The flicker of determination in his eyes may have brought on that idea. Dean may have his father's thick, beautiful eyelashes, but that wasn't the only traits that were passed on to them, obviously. "We'll do an exorcism if we have to, but…"

Dean is no longer listening to his brother. He's now looking up past his shoulder, into a window of the house, where that pair of distressing, wide eyes called out to him.

On their way back to the car, Sam scratches the back of his head thoughtfully. "You know, I'm starting to think that _maybe_ the librarian was wrong about there not being any haunted places here." Dean shoots him a dirty look because he was supposed to be the one with the dark humor, and throws the keys at Sam, not in the mood to drive.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

After that rather ghastly experience, they head out for dinner like nothing had happened. The brothers walk casually into the diner, their stomachs rumbling, and their wallets already feeling lighter.

"Do you want to eat here or take-out?" Sam asks. Dean thinks about it… here, at a small, harmless diner, or back at their hotel room, which he dubbed 'wood paneling hell' since that's exactly what the walls were—wood paneling. Every wall. It was behind his bed, to the right and left of his bed, in front of his bed. It was rather maddening, so he just took a seat.

"I'll be with you in a minute." A waiter says from behind the counter several feet away. Sam tells him to take his time, and sits down across from Dean in a maroon colored booth.

"The usual?" Sam asks Dean softly, leaning forward on his elbows as he glanced down at the menu that was conveniently placed under glass on the table. "Double hamburger with cheese, mayo, and lettuce, onion rings, what?" Dean shrugged, taping his fingers. Although his stomach would object, he just didn't feel like eating. "If you don't decide, I'll choose for you." The tapping stopped. Sam looked up, and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry man." Yeah, and Berlin's the capital of Germany. What else is new?

Within twenty minutes, hot food is placed in front of the boys, the rising steam taunting their nostrils. Sam immediately picks up his cheeseburger and takes a big bite. Mayo squeezes out from the back with a silent cry of 'I'm free!' and falls unnoticed into his lap.

Dean stares down at his burger. Soon enough, his stomach warns him if he doesn't take a bit now, it'll jump out of his throat and start to digest it right on the plate. He picks it up slowly and takes a small bite. Pain in his throat flares up when he swallows it, and he starts coughing. Sam drops his half eaten burger on the plate and quickly hands his brother the plastic glass of water he ordered. Dean struggles to control his coughing fit while taking slow sips of water. Sam watches with worried eyes, his appetite declining.

He had to do something.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Hours later, it is already nighttime, and Dean's sleeping dreamlessly in the wood paneled hotel room. He merely floats in and out of unconsciousness, waking up every time he tossed or turned. It startles him when he hears the hotel door swing open. His hand reaches for the knife under his pillow, and he sits up in one swift movement, pointing the sharp knife at the intruder. The intruder, of course, was Sam, whose face was flushed, and he was breathing hard. Confused and concerned, Dean kept his grasp on the knife, but rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with his other hand. When did Sam even leave? Hell, why did he even--?

"I set the house on fire."

Oh.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪


	3. Chapter 3

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

There's an irritating itch at the back of his throat, and a lump forming below that. He swallows hard, his long fingers toying at the bottom hem of his shirt. A thread comes loose, and he winds it tightly around his index finger, cutting off the circulation. He parts his lips like he's about to say something, but wets them instead. Finally, the string snaps off, and does his mouth.

"Look, man, I'm sorry." He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The old, springy chair is uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as the silence had been. "I thought it would help, I honestly did." His voice cracks with such utmost sincerity it's almost heartwarming—_almost_.

Being verbally challenged, Dean can't say anything, but he also chooses not to physically respond. He's sitting halfway across the room on his unmade bed. He's vaguely reminded of when they were in Missouri, and how he had a killer truck tailgating him. His brother told him what to do, and he did, only to find out that Sam was never even sure if the plan would work.

"I don't even know what I was thinking." Sam admits guiltily, his head hanging low. His growing bands create a dark veil over his eyes. "I just thought that doing it might, you know, bring back your voice." _And relieve you of the pain_, he inwardly adds, quickly glancing up at Dean, who's rubbing inattentively at his neck like it's a good luck charm.

Dean's somber gaze flickers over to the nightstand between the beds where his cell phone is charging, and he wonders if their father would respond to a voice mail message consisting of choking and wheezing noises. The thought is enough to bring a small, musing smirk to his lips. This action just about bewilders Sam, until he notices his brother's familiar, distant stare, and allows a small, knowing smile.

"It's unbelievable, huh?" He asks softly, thinking about the last spoken conversation he had with Dean. Dean had been teasing him about chucking that flashlight at the demon, and he had told him to shut up. _I didn't mean it literally_. The latent guilt starts to swell up. Well, so much for that memory.

Staring blankly at the cell phone, Dean nods his head in agreement. _Freakin' ridiculous_. He didn't know where or what John was up to, but would it hurt to make a 'oh hey boys, I'm just checking to see if you're both still breathing' phone call, or send out a post card signed 'love, Dad' once in a while? He looks down at his calloused hands. Maybe it would.

"On the bright side…" The chair's springs groan as Sam pushes himself up, and pulls the EMF out of his pocket. He then tosses it carelessly on the bed. "I stopped at Walgreen's on the way and got…" He reaches back into his magical pocket and out comes a plastic bag. He throws it to Dean, who arches a questioning brow. "Toothpaste." He finishes with an uneasy grin.

Dean squeezes the tube of toothpaste through the plastic bag and forces a smile. Toothpaste wasn't going to make everything better.

"Oh, and these." There's the sound of rustling, and then a bag of peanut M&M's lands on his lap. His forced smile spreads back into an easy grin.

Okay, these spectacular candies weren't going to make everything better either, but… baby steps. Yeah, that's it, baby steps; one step at a time they were going to handle this… and figure it the hell out.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

The next two days fly by without warning. By now, Sam is even more determined to figure everything out, and Dean is starting to get bored, and not to mention fidgety. Being Dean, if he had something to say, he'd let Sam know one way or another. By the third day, they resort back to checking, and in some cases rechecking, over resources.

For dinner, they order Chinese food, neither of them in the mood to go out. Dean spends a while going through the same books yet again, so he soon retires from that and turns on the television, defeated. Buffy The Vampire Slayer is on, and the episode airing is the one where strange creatures steal everyone's voice. _Dude, I'm in a ripped off Buffy episode_. He flips to the next station. Oh, it's one of those law shows, and it's about a mute girl who gets her throat slit. Perturbed, he warily goes to the next station…

At the other side of the room, Sam calls up a few of their father's acquaintances from over the years. When that starts to prove useless, he goes back to the laptop. Alas, he doesn't know what to look for anymore. Pretty soon he expects a pop-up box that mockingly announces 'you've reached the end of the Internet; you've seen all there is to see… freak.'

When the food gets there, Sam pays for it, and by the time he turns around Foreigner is starting to blast from the speakers of a junk stereo that had been left in the room. "Jesus, Dean! You can't do that in here. Remember _last time_? If we ever get kicked out ever again, you're sleeping in the trunk of the car." Right as the last sentence slips out, he remembers Dean won't snap out one of his infamous, sarcastic retorts that he's still oh so used to, and his voice falters. His brain is still having trouble comprehending that Dean can't talk back. Not seeming too bothered, Dean just waves a 'whatever, man' hand in his direction as he takes the greasy brown bag from him.

Dean sets the bag on the table, and since it's stapled shut on the top, he just tears it open like a child opening a wrapped present. He peers inside, and then his gaze lifts up, meeting Sam's. Recognizing that look, Sam curses.

"I forgot to ask for extra soy sauce." He realizes with a grimace. Dean nods, taking out and putting aside two containers. He then scoops out the four packets of soy sauce. He takes three for himself, leaving Sam the remaining one… that's leaking. "Thanks, Ebenezer." Dean heartily salutes him… using his middle finger.

The sound of chewing and Foreigner's greatest hits, which had been turned down, is the only thing that can be heard for the next half hour in the small room. Seinfeld is playing on television, and Dean, while tapping his fork in tune to Hot Blooded, laughs at something. His laugh is weird—soundless, and mimics wheezing. Sam swallows a mouthful of broccoli and chicken, watching Dean intently. How does he manage to look so comfortable, laidback, and careless? Is it, Sam wonders, a front?

After dinner, Sam throws out their garbage, and then decides to take a shower. Dean lies stretched out on his back on his bed, and doesn't move until he hears the water running. Something catches his eye so he rolls onto his side, noticing his EMF is now besides his cell phone on the table, and it's turned on. He doesn't remember putting it there or turning it on. There are other reasons for how it got there, like maybe that bizarre creature, or perhaps he's getting amnesia, but he instantly mouths "_Sam_" and sighs.

Oh why, oh why did Sam have to go and burn down the house? That should've only been their last resort. When thinking about it, Dean really doesn't want to spend the rest of his life with a, er, _voiceless_ voice box and a throat that bleeds when he tries to talk, and he won't, if he has anything to say about it… which he doesn't because he _can't_. Damn those loopholes!

_I'm going to have to go back there. See if there's anything left… anything that can help us… me_. He decides to do it tomorrow, without Sam. A morbidly sardonic smirk appears on his lips. _Now, I just hope I can leave Sam here without worrying about him burning down this here hotel._ Ah, now, he mentally stories that, reminding himself to use that when he gets his voice back. Needless to say, his list of 'things to say to Sam the second my precious voice comes back home' was increasing rapidly.

A few minutes later, Sam wanders out of the bathroom, only wearing a lucky towel around his hips. What was it with Winchesters and getting changed outside of the bathroom? Dean makes sure to stare hard at the top of Sam's head. Sam, of course, notices as he slips on a black t-shirt, and turns away.

"Cut it out, that's creepy." Cut it out? Those words aren't in Dean's vocabulary. He continues staring. "Seriously, man, quit it." Although he tries to mask it, it's still a whine, and Dean's satisfied. He turns around onto his stomach, burying his face into the soft floral print pillow. His bedspread was pale yellow with small, red and pink roses. He lifts up his head, his top lip curling up in disgust and confusion. Why hadn't he noticed that before? A hand pats his shoulder. "Now get out of my bed."

Ah, so that's why. Sam's the one with the pretty bed… and by "pretty," Dean means, "pretty girly."

Dean effortlessly rolls off the bed and onto his feet. He heads to the bathroom, closing, but not locking, the door behind him. He slips off his shirt and uses it to wipe the steam off the mirror. He tosses it to the floor afterwards, since after he brushes his teeth he only plans on going to bed. He wets his toothbrush and then squeezes the mint paste onto it, but as he opens his mouth and brings up his hand, he stops, setting the toothbrush down gently on the ceramic sink.

He takes out a pocket flashlight from his pant's pockets, and leans forward, opening his mouth wide. With his eyes never leaving his pale reflection, he shines the light down his throat, examining it for anything, like he has been doing the last couple of nights. He doesn't know why he does it, but he keeps doing it anyway. He tries to make some noise, but the only sound that passes through his lips are noises his constricting throat makes. This angers him, and he throws the small flashlight, and knocks everything off the counter with one quick sweep of his arm.

In his head, he yells in frustration, annoyance, confusion, but his throat just starts to sting with pain. With his eyes shut tightly, he wrinkles up his face, pissed off, and hits the wall with a weak punch out of aggravation as he strains his throat, his neck, and every muscle of his body.

But in the end, he's left with a bloody mouth and an aching, tired body.

Outside of the room, Sam is leaning against the heavy door with all his weight. He's grasping the doorknob tightly, but doesn't move. He's biting down hard on his lower lip, trying not to cry for his brother. He doesn't have it in him to do this for another night. "I'll figure this out, Dean…" Sam whispers, unsure if he is making another broken promise.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Sam wakes up early the next morning, and is ready to leave in a few minutes. He kneels by the side of his brother's bed, gently shaking Dean's shoulder while softly saying his name. Dean jerks up, an empty, crumbled up yellow bag clutched tightly in his right hand. He then blinks at it, wondering why he's holding an M&M's bag, and not a knife. He smacks his dry lips together and tosses it behind his shoulder, where it lands on the other pillow.

"I'm heading out for a while, just to check up on something." Sam explains, a small, innocent smile toying at his lips. Dean doesn't miss the sad expression that's present in his brother's eyes. The brunette swallows hard; now came the hard part. "Can I, um, borrow your car? I'll be back shortly, I promise, and I won't take sharp corners, or abuse the stereo system by playing _good_ music or anything." The last sentence comes out quickly, on one breath. Dean obviously doesn't catch the last part because he just nods, and falls back under the covers.

Sam grabs the car keys, and glances at Dean's still form before leaving.

And as soon as he hears the roar of his baby's engine, Dean sits up. In his mind, there's a flash of sad, lonely eyes calling out to him, and he throws back the covers, knowing he has to go see what was left of the house.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"Hey, I remember you." A pair of smiling eyes meet Sam's the second he walks into the empty library. A chill runs down his spine. "Ever find what you were looking for?" The librarian is standing behind the check out counter, sorting through returned books. A gold necklace hangs from her skinny, freckled neck, and the thin charms on it spell out the name 'Corinne.'

"I think I might have." He simply states with an unsure shrug, and walks forward, his hands in his pockets. "My name's Sam. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind answering a few of my questions."

"Pertaining to?" Corrine asks, causally picking up a book.

"Haunted houses, remember?" She sets the book down. "I know you were there weren't any around here, but experience tells me otherwise." Why was his heart beating so fast? Am I really looking too far into this? He wants to know, but when her friendly gaze turns icy, he knows otherwise.

"_Experience_?" She questions incredulously. "Just who do you think you are?" Sam can hear the sadness behind her words, and he wishes Dean was here with him. They played well off each other. When situations got awkward, Dean would say something stupid, and Sam would work off that to start a new conversation in a different direction. Luckily, Corinne continued, not waiting for his reply. "We don't appreciate this, you know. Some tourist coming here, trying to stir up old business."

"Old business?" Sam repeats, confused. "What old—"

"Just leave."

He couldn't. Sam knew he was getting somewhere now, and he wouldn't let this go, not for anything. "I just want answers."

"We just want peace." Corinne's icy glare melts, but she still looks tense, uncomfortable. Sam takes a small step forward, his eyes pleading. "Please," he begs, hoping his puppy dog look works as well as Dean complains it does. The librarian sighs, looking down. "Make it quick. What do you want to know?"

"I need to know about the house. The story, what happened—?"

Corinne visibly flinches, and sighs again, only more sharply this time. "A boy was attacked there, okay? Like you already didn't know. No, no one knows who did it, and yes, that's all there is to it."

What the hell? "Attacked? How long ago? Can I talk to him?"

"_He's dead_." Her voice echoes, and cracks with emotion. Two students walk into the building, talking to each other. One girl smiles at Sam, while talking to her friend, but other than that they ignore the two as they went off in the direction of the computer room. "Sam, was it?" Corinne asks in a small, calm voice. He looks over at her, but she averts his gaze.

"Yes?"

"You should leave." It's a warning, but not a threat, or at least that's how Sam hears it, but he's not ready to leave yet. He tells her that he doesn't mean to start anything, because it's true. He just wants to be able to hear his brother be that adoring obnoxious-at-times, cynical smart-ass again. "I know." She tucks back lose strands of brown hair behind her ears. "I know," she repeats, almost inaudibly.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

_Why the hell did I let him take the car?_ Deans asks, walking down a strange street. His strides are long but slow, almost hesitant. He knows the way to the house, but only by car, as weird as that sounds. Thus, he pretends he's driving the Impala, which makes him feel foolish, but hey, it works. When he reaches the end of the street, he glances at a stop sign, and remembers turning right at it, so he does.

The closer he gets to the house, the more he starts thinking about it. He wonders if the fire destroyed the whole house, or if there's yellow caution tape around any remains. He inhales deeply, waiting for that familiar smell, but it never comes. He finally reaches the house, and his heart skips a beat.

It's in perfect condition.

Okay, well, that's a lie since it is an abandoned house that should be torn down. But in fire condition-wise, it was fine. There wasn't any police tape, and the smell of burnt wood was nonexistent. What the hell? Sam did say he set fire to it. Did he get the wrong house, or what?

Dean quickly crosses the street, not bothering to look both ways since he didn't hear any cars. He jogs up to the porch, smelling gasoline. There's a river of it leading into the house. Right in front of the doorway, there's a burnt match, bathing in the gasoline. There are some scorch marks, he notices, but it looks like any fire that was created was put out quickly. It didn't make any sense.

The screen door, which is surprising still attached to the hinges, was left wide open, and it suddenly slams shut. Dean gets the message, and puts his arms up defensively because he doesn't feel like getting whacked with that screen door today. As he walks away, he hears a scratching noise behind him, and picks up his pace.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪


	4. Chapter 4

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Sam was going to die a long, painful death. Whether or not if it were going to be a messy death would depend on whatever object is closest when Dean sees the noticeable scratch on his adored car's passenger side door.

He had hurried out of the library, fully intending to jump into the Impala, and speed off to the hotel to share the news with Dean. It wasn't exactly a lead or anything, but it was something, and he'd take anything he can get and like it.

But then he had spotted it. The scratch. _Jaws_ themed music played in his head, followed by an echoed, "dun, dun, _dun_!" What were the chances he could blame this on the demon they were hunting?

Hey, maybe it had been the demon. Maybe it was all, "oh, you burned down my house, you little shit, so I'm going to scratch up your brother's car, yarr." In spite of himself, Sam chuckled as he slid into the driver's seat, and started the automobile.

"What the hell?" He turned into the hotel's parking lot as he spotted Dean crossing the street. He made sure to park the car between two other cars, hoping his brother wouldn't notice the Impala's injury. In fact, he hoped to be far, far away when Dean noticed. Like on a different continent far away. He jogged over to Dean. _Don't go near the car. Please, don't go near the car_… He prayed that Dean's car senses weren't tingling.

"Where the hell were you?" Both Winchester's asked in unison, but only Sam's voice was heard. "You're not going to believe this." The two said together again, and Dean snarled; he wasn't about to let Sam dominate the conversation because he hadn't been the one to get voice-mugged. But when Sam continued talking, he decided to let it pass because… well, _he hadn't been the one to get voice-mugged_.

"Listen man, I was at the library, and I talked to that woman, _and_ you're not going to believe this." There wasn't much his brother didn't believe in, so whatever it was, it probably wasn't going to be much of a shocker. Dean made a 'hurry the fuck up' motion with his hands when Sam paused for a suspenseful, dramatic effect. "Apparently, someone was attacked by something in the house." There had been just way too enthusiasm in his voice.

"And…?" The older brother mouthed after he waved his right hand impatiently, waiting for the rest of the "_ohmigosh_, you won't, like, totally believe this!" news.

The enthusiasm was suddenly long gone. "That someone is dead." He sniffled, and looked down at the pavement. "She, uh, said it was a boy, and that was all I was going to get from her." He let out a breath of air and scratched the back of his head. "But, at least, we're getting somewhere, _right_?" With that, he looked up, his dark eyes shined with that recognizable hopeful gleam.

Dean opened his mouth, but the sound of an ocean in Pennsylvania could be heard louder than his voice. "The house--" He suddenly remembered. "—Is apparently fire proof." His lips barely moved with the words. He took out his cell phone, and handed it to Sam after pressing the camera key, and then the 'ok' button for the gallery shots.

"It's the house." Captain Obvious pointed out as he went through the pictures Dean decided to take at the last minute. "You—you went back there? When, last night?" Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes and shook his head. God, he loved Sam, but sometimes it seemed the boy was slower than molasses going uphill during a rainstorm. "Wait… you just took these? That—" He laughed skeptically, like whatever. "—Can't be, Dean. 'Cause I was there, okay, I used enough gas to… and I light the match and threw… oh, shit." He harshly snapped the phone shut, which had earned an eyebrow rising 'oh, no you didn't,' glare from Dean.

Sam wanted desperately to wake up. What was going on? The youngest Winchester felt like he was lost in a nightmare—a very, very real nightmare. Wes Craven didn't have anything on this shit. He had a possessed house and a demonic ghost that bounced up and down on one shoulder, and a mute brother who gnawed feverishly on the other. He was truly in need of a cold beer and a shotgun, not a five thousand-piece puzzle of mysteries that he was unable to put together. He had always been more of a crossword puzzle and word search kind of guy anyway.

"We… we can try again." Sam's vision blurred after he let out a humorless laugh. The frustrating begun to sink in, taking its toll. "This time we'll watch the house burn down, maybe that's why your voice—" A warm hand clapped over his mouth. He rolled his head back, and stared up at the cloudless, bright azure sky. Somewhere in the background, he had heard a bird chirp, a car screech on its brakes, a plastic bag caught noisily in the wind, and his brother's loud silence. "Okay." He whispered against Dean's palm. "I get it."

Dean gave a curt bob of the head, his gaze shifting side to side. He huffed. _But you don't_.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

When in doubt, drink your conscious state away.

"I can't believe I let you—" _Talk_. "—drag me into this place." The bar was crowded, and it reeked of cigarettes and alcohol. The smell made Sam queasy, but Dean merely inhaled deeply, and then nudged Sam, turning his head enough for the brunette to notice his wry smirk. "Ass. We shouldn't be here, we should…" With a wrinkled nose, Dean waved his hand around like he was swatting at an annoying fly, and pushed past people to get to the bar. "… should follow you," came his irritated mumble as he did just that.

Since the bartender wouldn't really understand Dean's barbaric pointing-down-throat command of 'give me beer,' Sam ordered a pitcher, and sat at a small, round isolated table near the back. The place, he later learned, was so crowded because local bands were supposed to be playing soon.

"This is ridiculous; we…" He trailed off, knowing that right now he was only talking to himself. Sam could argue the fuzz off a peach, but when it came to Dean, he was lucky to even get a stubbornly cocked brow. Thus, instead, he poured a glass of that frosty alcoholic beverage… to the rim. He took a long, slow swig, and then cringed at the bitter aftertaste.

Dean disappeared momentarily, and wandered back with a fistful of darts. He wore a smug smirk and set them down on the sticky, circular table. Sam picked one up and pressed the top of his index finger against the dull tip. "We came a long way for a game of darts." There was that disapproving tone in his voice that made Dean want to shove the dart up Sam's nostril. In one quick movement, he picked up a dart, and flung it at the dartboard that was located just a few feet behind him. It didn't hit dead center, but it was close enough to make Sam shut up and take another swallow of beer.

About a half hour later, the bands started playing, and the second his ears were harassed by the screaming, emo-styled music he was out of there. "They call _that_ music?" He mouthed distastefully, and zipped up his jacket when the cool night air hit him. Sam was a few feet behind him, and had to sprint to catch up. "This place officially sucks." He was also pissed off at the fact that Sam couldn't hear him complain. This begged the question: if a mute Dean talked and no one was around to hear him, did he really talk? Wait, that didn't make any sense…

Sam caught up quickly, but to remain walking side-by-side, he had to walk quickly, practically jogging, in wide strides. He glanced sideways at Dean, unable to stop the feeling of guilt bubble up in his stomach when he notices his brother's clenched jaw, the angry way he furrowed his brow, and the miserable look in his narrowed eyes. He suddenly stopped, and grabbed Dean's elbow, his grasp loose, yet unyielding.

"We can go somewhere else?" He offered, biting down on his lower lip. Dean remained motionless; he didn't even look at him. "Are you hungry?" Still nothing. "We can go buy a six pack and head back to the hotel?" The shorter Winchester let out a sharp exhale of air, but still didn't respond. "Or we can—" _We, we, we_.

_Enough_! Dean wanted to yell. His blood boiled, and his pulse raced. He strained his throat as he thrashed out of Sam's grip. He wanted to scream, yell, talk… and even cry in the manliest, least chick flick way possible. Dean was grateful that Sam had his back, and wanted to help, but enough was enough. He didn't need to be smothered, or be talked down to like he was a child. He was still Dean! He was just a less vocal Dean with more spiffier hand gestures.

"What the hell is your problem, Dean? You're being an unappreciative jerk." He slurred slightly on the second to last word, and Dean's anger started to fade away when he realized his little brother managed to get a bit smashed on two glasses of beer. If he had a camcorder and a local karaoke bar, he'd have a field day. Unexpectedly, Dean laughed, and it wasn't a humorless laugh, but an honest one. His laugh was practically soundless, but it was there, and it was noticed. "Are you _laughing_?" Sam asked incredulously and crossed his arms over his chest.

Dean nodded, unable to keep a small smile off his face. Right, like the image of Sammy slobbering into a microphone, singing 'I Will Survive' wouldn't make you do the same. He wetted his lips and tried to regain composure as Sam raised a brow at him appraising. When he finally managed to keep a straight face, it only took a mere glance up at his brother to make his lips tug back into that smile.

"What?" Sam finally asked, now more puzzled than upset. Weird how he felt like he was ready to blow, but then Dean had to go and be distractive by smiling. "Wha' is it?" He blinked, dumbfounded, especially when Dean laughed again, and patted Sammy on the shoulder. He shook his head, his hand still on Sam's shoulder when he urged him to start walking. _He must be drunk_, Sam thought, ignoring the fact that Dean had only taken one small sip from his own glass; he judged by Dean's wince that the alcohol had burned his raw throat.

By the time they reached the hotel, Dean's smile had vanished, but his hand still hadn't left Sam's shoulder. The tension between the brothers was once again latent. However, it could only stay that way for so long.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

The next morning, Dean played Pinball on the laptop while his brother was in the bathroom. He lay stretched out on his stomach on the bed, his chin rested against the palm of his left hand. _High score!_ The screen flashed, and he knew he impressed every object in the room with his awesome hand and eye coordination skills. The high scores chart popped up after he diligently typed in his name. It showed that he just beat his last high score, just like last time, and the time before that, and that other time before the other time where he did precisely just that… Dean let out a bored sigh and closed the computer shut.

After he hears the faucet turn on in the bathroom, he sat up, impatiently waiting for his brother to get out so they could go get something to eat. To save time, he decided to put on his boots. It was while he laced up the laces when his cell phone let out a shrilling ring. He reached over across the bed and grabbed it. 'No name,' it read, which told him it wasn't anyone on his contacts list. He was about to decline the call, when it occurred to him that it could be his father, and he just couldn't take that chance, therefore, after glancing quickly at the closed bathroom door, he answered.

Of course, there was still that little problem; Dean was voiceless. So, he pressed a key to let the person know that someone had answered, but all he heard from the other line was dead silence. He pressed a key again—still silence. He shrugged, about to disconnect, when static screamed out to him. _Jesus Christ, what the hell_! Dean jumped to his feet, and rubbed his right ear with his free hand. _Great, now I can be deaf too_. He sullenly thought with a dismal snort.

"Dean." His voice then called out to him through the static and the earpiece. His heart skipped a beat, and he nearly dropped the small phone. "Help me, Dean." It pleaded before the static got louder and overcame the voice, and then… everything was silent again. Pale faced, Dean closed the phone, and dropped it hastily on the bed, like it had burned his hand.

As if on cue, the bathroom door swung open, and Sam stepped out, a smile present on his face until he saw Dean. "What is it?" He asked. He took a deep breath after his stomach flip-flopped. "Dean?"

The demon had called out to _him_, not Sam. It didn't just plead, 'help me,'; it asked for his help directly. Besides, how was he going to tell his brother that he just got a _phone call_ from that thing? Jesus, was it going to e-mail him next? Send him those annoying 'send this to 827,000 people in seven minutes or you will rot in hell, bwahaha' chain e-mails? Good thing they didn't have a fax machine, or else it would probably fax him one threatening letter at a time.

Why did life have to be so ridiculous? Why couldn't they go after more ghosts who would throw Dean into walls and strangle Sam? After a quick game of 'how to beat the monster of the week' they were supposed to move onto the next one. This wasn't how the game was supposed to be played!

Dean looked past his brother's innocuous, worried stare, and shook his head. He kicked off his unlaced shoes, and picked up the laptop. He opened it, and then went to notepad, which was left opened, and slowly typed out that he wasn't feeling well with one finger pecking away at the keys. When Sam read it, he cursed, shifting forward to feel Dean's forehead, but the older Winchester scowled after he backed away.

"All right, sorry. Geesh, Dean." He asked him if his sudden illness had to do with the creature they were hunting. His voice of words made Dean feel slightly ill. _The creature they were hunting_ needed their help. There wasn't any way he could convince Sam of that. '_It attacked you_,' Sam would most likely argue back, more stubborn than ever. '_How would it need our help? Maybe next it wants your body_.' And then, if Dean could talk, he'd snap back with, '_who doesn't want my body_?'

"I'm fine." Dean mouthed to Sam. It was the truth, although the stress of their situation wasn't exactly helping him. He shoos off his brother, telling, or rather typing, that he was hungry, and Sam was his bitch; his noble stead that brought him food. Sam shot him a dirty look… and then told him he'd be back soon before asking what he wanted.

On his way out, Sam prepared for revenge once everything was right again in their screwed up world.

On Sam's way out, Dean brainstormed, his eyes glued on the silent cell phone.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Today, Sam decided not to use Dean's car. He didn't want to risk another scratch, and with the way his luck went, he'd end up with a dent. He shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his jacket, ready for the walk, when something poked into the flesh between his thumb and index finger. He stopped momentarily to take it out. "A dart?" He questioned, more than positive that he hadn't put it in there. Wait, or did he? The brunette squinted at it; last night was nothing more than a blur, so the memory of him putting it in his pocket was practically nonexistent.

Since he would pass the bar, which functioned as a diner during the day, on his way to where he figured he'd order their food, he decided to stop in to drop it off. Sure, it was only a dart, but it was the right thing to do, and the last thing Sam needed was more bad karma to kick his ass.

He planned to just place it on the counter and leave, but when he was about to do that, a waitress whipped past him, telling him that she'd take his order "in just a second." He immediately recognized her as the blonde woman who had given him directions to the library a few days ago. For the hell of it, he sat down at a table, and on his way there, he scooped the said dart out of his pocket.

"Would you like to order a drink before you… hey, I remember you!" Her gray nametag read 'Christine.' "Get to the library okay?" She teased with a smile as she took out a pad of paper and pen from her back pocket.

"Yeah, thanks." He leaned forward on his elbows. Time to work that charm. And time to work those lies. "I'm working on a paper for class, and I was wondering if maybe you could answer a few questions for me?"

"I'm _working_." Christine pointed out, a wary gleam in her eye. "And my break isn't for another hour."

"Well, that's fine." Sam grinned. "I hate interviewing on an empty stomach."

He ordered for himself, and made sure to tell her he'd like a cheeseburger and fries to go before he left. By the time he got his food, and finished eating, she was ready for whatever he had to ask. A fellow waitress cleared the table before she sat down across from him.

"So, what's the paper about? Pennsylvania's glamorous and bountiful potholes?" Sam shook his head. He did remember Dean how Dean bitched about them before though.

"It's about what happened in that house on Sherman St."

"Wait, you're writing a paper for a _class_ on a house around here? What kind of class is it?" She asked skeptically, and Sam made a mental note to think of better cover stories.

"All right, you caught me. I write for my school's paper."

Christine still looked cynical. "Why does your school's paper care about what went on there? Are you even from around here?"

Okay, Sam now started to get pissed off. "Because we have a inquisitive student body." He answered tersely, his jaw tightly clenched.

The blonde rolled her eyes. "Fine, whatever. What do you want to know?" Sam liked her better when she had been jogging with the mutt.

"I need to know more about the boy."

"What about him?"

What ever happened to not answering a question with a fucking question? "What happened to him would be a start. Did they ever find out what—_who_ killed him?"

Christine stared hard at him, confusion read on her face. "_Killed_ him? He's still _alive_."

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Sorry this took longer to get out. Apparently it was 'call in sick so Alex has to cover your shift' week at work. Sigh.

Also, I **am** trying on keeping the tenses straight. Let me know how I'm doing, please. Thanks to those who have reviewed, and I apologize for my awful use of tenses.


	5. Chapter 5

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Sam had almost broken his chair. "He's… alive?" He scrunched up his brow in utter bewilderment. What the hell? He couldn't stand to get jerked around anymore.

"Technically." Christine answered briefly with a curt nod. She folded her arms out in front of her, looking down at her watch quickly to check the time. Sam waited for her to elaborate because he was really freaking confused. However, she said nothing else.

"_Technically_?" He finally repeated ludicrously. Dean was technically dead too, since he was legally dead. (Thus… illegally alive?) Anyway, he had a feeling that wasn't the case here.

"Well, yeah, he has been unresponsive." _Unresponsive_. Sam's breath caught in his throat. "But he's still in there, you know?" She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, a sad smile pressed back on her glossed lips. "Drew's cousin told me that he hasn't even acknowledged his own parents."

"Unresponsive, like he hasn't said anything?" Sam urged. His heart pounded painfully against his ribcage. Dean was unresponsive… in the loosest terms available. Only his brother could have his voice stolen and still manage to be heard.

Christine shrugged hopelessly. "Unresponsive as in he's in his own state of mind, I guess. I'm no doctor, ah—um, what did you say your name was?" She pursed her lips together tightly, and Sam easily noticed the distrustful flicker in her light blue eyes.

"You know what, it's getting late—my brother's probably masticating on the furniture by now." He abruptly stood up, and grabbed the white Styrofoam container that held his brother's meal. A fellow waitress had set it down on the table earlier. "Thanks for, um—"

"I'll get your bill." She cut him off tersely before she stood up and wiped her palms against the bottom of her apron.

He forced a friendly grin. "Of course." If the situation were reversed, Dean would have been halfway back to the motel before the waitress noticed he hadn't paid. He almost laughed when he imagined Christine only finding a tip on the table.

If it were possible, his wallet felt even lighter. _Can't afford this much longer_, Sam noted as he slipped the faded leather wallet into the back pocket of his washed-out blue jeans. He stuffed two crumbled up dollar bills into the "tipping is not a city in China" cup before he left.

"Shit, maybe I should've called Dean." He had said he'd be back soon, and he passed soon about an hour ago. He took out his phone and text messaged Dean a message that read he'd be home "in a jiffy" and sent a picture of the food container as evidence he hadn't completely forgotten.

About a minute and a half later, he received a message back, and nearly dropped the phone. It was a picture of the scratched car door. No message other than the picture was included; no words needed to be said, or typed.

Hell hath no fury like Dean scorned… when someone has tampered with his baby. Yeah, so, Sam, who considered making an around-the-world detour, slowly made his way back to the motel.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Dean was rather conflicted at the moment; he wanted to go back to the house, but knew his brother would have an aneurysm if he did, and honestly, he didn't really need that now. He didn't just feel like he wanted to go back, he felt like he _had_ to go back. Yeah, Sam would understand that… like he unarguably understood every other one of Dean's motives. Right.

What if he just went and took a peek at the house? Maybe if he casually drove down the street, and waved at it---ha! The remains of the screen door would probably slam shut tauntingly at him, totally just like, "oh, I know you want in, but the muffin shop is closed, baby."

Oh, yes. Dean certainly was conflicted at the moment; earlier he took pain relievers for his sore throat, but he had washed it down with warm leftover alcohol. He wasn't even sure how long the bottle had been sitting unopened on the cluttered bureau. His turning stomach told him _a while_. One hand rubbed at his neck, the other at his abdomen.

After a half hour of the dreadful waiting, the Winchester resorted to eating some of the junk food he hid in his baggage, under his boxers. Sam would never dare go near that perilous compartment… unless he was revengefully equipped with a bag of itching powder. He pulled out a half eaten bag of M&M's, and sniffed the yellow plastic bag before he shrugged and slid a hungry hand in.

Goddammit. Dean was definitely conflicted now; his _half eaten_ bag of M&M's were more like his _whole eaten_ bag of M&M's. God, he wished he could go back in time and bust a cap in his old self's ass for having eaten his future supply of food. Gosh, how could he do that to himself?

Okay, screw being conflicted—Dean was downright hungry. He distracted his growling stomach by cleaning his guns, but that only lasted for so long when he realized you could only clean your guns so many times in _one_ freaking week. He really needed to find a new hobby. Then again, Dean wasn't the kind of guy who sat down to cross-stitch during those rare moments of peace when he hunted things that went bump in the night.

Okay, where the hell was Samuel? The motel door didn't even answer before it slammed shut behind an impatient, and famished Dean Winchester. He stalked down the stairs and to his '67 Chevy Impala, his eyes clutched tightly in his right hand. He spotted his car right away—the lot was near empty.

He also spotted the abrasion on the passenger side door right away. Now, now, Dean tried to reason; maybe someone did it moments earlier, hours earlier… days earlier. No, he would've noticed _this_. He crouched down beside the injured door and carefully examined the mark, his lips compressed into a very tight and straight line.

There were three long lines that had scratched ruthlessly through the holy paint. They were close together, and just _too_ straight. Something (and an out of its damn mind something; hadn't it noticed the "touch my car and I swear to your god I will pummel your sorry ass repeatedly with rock salt, human or not" sign on Dean's back?) had dared to fuck with his car. Whatever was going on… it had suddenly gotten personal. You don't steal someone's voice and then go after his car… that was inhuman!

Oh, yeah. Right. He almost forgot what he was dealing with.

His cell phone suddenly beeped out to him from inside his pocket. It was a text message—from Sammy. Dean's left eye twitched. Did Sam know? His message read that he was close and he'll be back "in a jiffy" (that alone had made Dean's twitch even worse—_jiffy_?) and included a picture of a white container. His stomach grumbled with anticipation.

Dean took a picture of the claw marks on his car and sent them to Sam. He hadn't bothered with a message, because a picture was worth a thousand words… and there were simply no words to express the Impala's sorrow. When Sam hadn't sent a response, Dean guessed that the poor boy was too heartbroken to key back a message.

Unless Sam _knew_…

But if he knew, he would've told him…

Right?

_Ooh, that tall little bitch_.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"We have to find this kid. There's no other way." Sam's voice was only background music to Dean as he bit into the cheeseburger. The meat was undercooked, the cheese wasn't even melted, and worst of all--the mayonnaise on it wasn't mayonnaise but an imposter--that Miracle Whip crap. Worst cheeseburger ever, Dean noted; he had to force his unwilling, aching throat to swallow the appalling food.

Sam sat halfway across the room—what a shocker—with the laptop. His brown eyes looked intently down at the screen, filled with more determination and confidence that Dean had seen in the past week. "All right, there are two hospitals in this area. One doesn't have a psych ward, but the other does." His fingertips smacked against a few keys, and he clicked something. "There's also a state psychiatric hospital right out of the area."

Dean gave a nod, chewing on a bite of the burger. There was a dab of Miracle Whip on the corner of his mouth.

"The thing is, I don't know if we'll be able to see him, you know? So, once again, we might have to _improvise_." Dean stopped chewing. A little leaf of lettuce peeked out from between his pursed lips. He lifted a questioning brow, and deadpanned when Sam flashed him _that_ grin. It was the grin that he always gave Sam right before one of his brilliant ideas. Oh boy, that was never good, albeit humorous… to him.

But what the fuck ever. Dean was looking at Sam and for once seeing _himself_. _That's my boy_!

Then, Sam's facial expression softened, and he closed the laptop. "Hey, um, you checked out the newspapers, didn't you? At the library, yeah?" Dean nodded, surely. "Yeah, thought so. It's odd… something like this would've been in the paper." He grazed his upper lip with his bottom teeth in thought. "Unless it was taken out." Dean mouthed right as Sam said it, already ahead of him. "But who would…?" He exchanged a knowing look with the older brother.

_The librarian_.

"Whew, something tells me that maybe—just maybe—she was lyin' again." _Or covering something up…_ He'd need to pay more attention to that later.

Dean made a face that silently told his brother to shut up. After all, he was supposed to be the one with the twisted, dark sense of humor. Gosh, this hunt wasn't doing anything for his complexion, or reputation. Not to mention the added stress with his car now. That wasn't over yet, just momentarily put aside until Dean could verbally bitch about it.

"Well, I think I have a few phone calls to make." Sam clapped his hands together, and reached for the cell phone. He tried to give his brother a hopeful look, but Dean just stared down dumbly at his half eaten cheeseburger, his appetite suddenly lost. _Useless_. "Okay." He whispered for his own need of a response as guilt hopelessly bubbled up once again in the pit of his conscience.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"So," Sam had asked the next morning, "should we suit up, or wing it?"

Dean made a face, rubbed at his throat, and waved a hand, as to say _whichever, whatever, bitch_. However, he hadn't been in the mood to dress up like a penguin, so the "wing it" option won.

Now, twenty minutes after that insightful conversation, they arrived at CMC; a quaint hospital with eight floors---one being designated as a psychiatric ward.

"Something feels… off." Sam admitted uncomfortably, which earned a snort from Dean. They'd made their way through the revolving door in the front entrance, and walked along each other to the elevators. "You know what I mean—_more_ off. I just have a really weird feeling." Yeah, Dean had a weird feeling too, but he put it off as the pathetic excuse for a cheeseburger he had the previous night.

They found the floor effortlessly—thanks for a very visible floor level plan—and Sam went up to talk to a nurse at the station while Dean loitered by a clutter of chairs outside the elevator. Although he tried to make himself appear nonchalant, to just stand there, arms crossed, staring blankly out the window (there, after all, was a breath-taking view of the parking garage), he continuously leaned back on his heels, and looked behind his shoulder, peering down the hallway, where he his little brother.

Sam was leaning against the counter on his forearms, hunched over. He tried to keep up a friendly, non-suspicious appearance, but that's hard when you're dressed in old tattered clothes… and a giant. Dean watched his stubborn smile that refused take no for an answer with a smirk of his own.

_Come on… use those puppy dog eyes_. Yeah, anyone who doesn't fall for them, is obviously possessed by an evil spirit, so just mumble a few choice words in Latin (if you can get away with Christo, you can get away with anything; no need to be picky), and then, maybe after you've blasted a little rock salt, charge past them! Dean nodded. That sounded about right.

Sam continued talking to the nurse, and Dean cursed. When he lost his voice, shouldn't his other senses have heightened? _Damn straight, I should be able to hear another lie pass through the White House from here_. He squinted—maybe he was supernaturally blessed with the gift to read lips… Nope. _Aw, man_.

Expressionless, Sam turned around, his long arms limp at his sides, and headed down the short hallway towards Dean, who hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath until Sam's mouth tugged back into a boyish grin and he let out a relieved sigh. Sam nodded his head behind him, gesturing for him to follow. Dean made sure to elbow him on the way.

"Only have a few minutes…"

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

The room was small and cramped. Dean almost felt claustrophobic, and wondered what it must've felt like to the thirteen year old boy sitting in a brown chair besides a neatly made hospital bed. He lingered in the doorway as Sam cautiously approached the teenager.

"Hey Drew, right? My name's Sam…" Drew looked like he hadn't even noticed Sam's entrance, which was a loud one at that since he banged his calf against metal sticking out at the end of the hospital bed; he hadn't blinked, nor did his blank facial expression change at all. "The nurse told me you don't like visitors, but I told him that I have a problem that only you can help me with." A nervous chuckle followed his softly spoken words. "He didn't seem too convinced when I said that, but it's true."

Dean half-smiled at his brother's sincerity, but looked back at the kid. His skin was painted the color of death, and he looked so emaciated, so old and worn out. A child should never look like this.

"You see, my brother—older brother—he's, um, he's unable to talk, and he could a week ago." Drew blinked. Coincidence or not, Sam took it as a lead. "Yeah, and, uh, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm actually missing his snappy, derisive quips." _And even the ones at my own expense_. Another chuckle, and his vision blurred. "I mean, he's _such_ a smart ah---aleck. But it's endearing, really, after twenty-two years of it."

_Jesus, cool it, Sammy._ Dean thought, but he couldn't deny that he'd felt his heart melt.

However, Drew hadn't even bothered to blink again. Dean flipped on the light switch, and walked up next to Sam, his footsteps heavy. He tilted to the side so he was in the kid's sight, and that triggered another blink—no! Not just a blink, but two quick blinks. _Acknowledgement_, Dean realized, already staring hard into Drew's familiar, distant eyes. _Oh, shit._

"This is Dean." Sam introduced with a nod in his brother's direction. "He was attacked just like you were." Dean put a hand on the taller man's shoulder and squeezed it tightly. He ignored it. "I know you'd rather stay protected in your safe, sheltered world, but I need you to help me get my—_hey_!" Dean squeezed his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises where his fingers dug in. "Dean, we don't have the time to—"

A chill scattered down Dean's spine, and he shuddered. Drew's dead gaze that seemed to stare straight past them suddenly bolted up, and it locked on Dean, who suddenly started coughing. He bent over slightly, and put a hand over his mouth. He fought to suppress the wet wheezing coughs, to gain control, and he did. As soon as he was sure it wasn't going to attack again, he drew back his hand, cringing at the sight of the blood that stained his palm.

"_What are you doing here_?" A voice boomed from the doorway, where Corinne, the librarian stood, her hands propped on her hips. She did not look happy. Sam's worried eyes went from his brother to her, where they filled with shock. "Get away from my son before I call security—_now_!"

How did he not see this coming? The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew were probably doubled over, laughing at him right now.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪


	6. Chapter 6

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Dean was furious. It didn't help that Sam was getting more and more oblivious to his rather expressive facial expressions and hand gestures. He didn't want to write out his feelings on paper, or type them up on the freaking laptop—he wanted to speak, he wanted to curse, and most of all, he wanted to kill something—_that_ something.

"Dean, slow down."

It was Drew who stole his voice, and that he was sure of. How he managed to do it, now, that he didn't know. Those eyes were still fresh in his mind, always constant, always there. They haunted him, and they wouldn't go away until he made everything right. That task was proved to be harder and harder with the changing stories.

"You passed the motel—Dean, you passed the—are you listening to me?"

The stories didn't need to stay consistent. Yeah, sure, it'd be helpful if they did, but Dean knew enough, or at least he thought he did. Something did happen to that boy, and something did happen to that boy in the house. The house. The house was the problem here, not the "creature" as the brothers had put it.

"Dean? You just ran a red light, man!"

It wasn't a creature, a demon, or a poltergeist. It was Drew. Although he physically sat in the hospital, he wasn't all there. Something was holding him back; something was keeping him hostage. That something had to be the house, whether it was haunted, or something else supernatural was ultimately behind it all.

"Do you _want_ us to get pulled over?"

He squeezed the steering wheel tighter to hide how badly his hands were shaking. He knew he couldn't take much more of the bullshit that they were lost in, and neither could Sam. Sam shouldn't have to. He doesn't deserve this, Dean thought. He narrowed his eyes, stuck out his lips a little.

"'Why, hello officer! Want us to pop open the trunk for you? Want to take a gander the glove compartment?' It's like a get _into_ jail free card."

He took a sharp turn. Sam swayed, hitting against the locked door. With all his bickering, nagging, complaining, and bitching, Dean would never need a wife. But it was all excused now, not because Sam was emotionally cracking with frustration, but because he'd rather call his brother out on it, wearing his usual shit-eating grin.

"We're _not_ going back in there. No way."

He loved Sam. He loved being his brother. He loved getting on his case. He loved being an asshole to him. He loved the exasperated, incredulous looks that came with being the adoring asshole. He loved being there for his brother. He loved protecting his brother. (Sometimes more than others.)

"Listen to me! You're voiceless, not deaf, _right_?"

And when Dean Winchester loved something, he fought his damn hardest to keep it. That's why he pulled in front of the house that he hated with a fiery 'I'm going to own you, bitch' passion. He didn't have Sam's determination to solve the mystery; he had the determination to beat it. There was a difference somewhere, on some level.

"Dean, I'm not letting you—"

He got out, and swung the door shut, cutting off Sam's words. He walked around to the back, and popped open the trunk. A dream catcher had nearly taken his eye out. He heard his brother curse under his breath as he jolted out the car, and stormed over, the gravel crunching loudly under his shoes.

"_Dean_!"

Sam's long fingers rolled down and his hand made a tight fist. He slammed the closed hand down on the trunk. The sound of flesh and bones crashing into metal, and the sound of the trunk banging shut echoed in the calm, cool night air. Dean had jerked back; if his reflexes weren't top notch, he would have two crushed wrists right now.

"We're in this together, yeah?"

His voice was small, but it still cracked, faltered, and it would need reassurance. Sam didn't want thumbs up, or a nod, a shrug, or the middle finger. He wanted his brother. He felt like reality has slipped right past him, and Dean was the only thing he could grab a hold of. He'd be damned if he'd ever let Dean slip out of his grasp.

"Yeah."

He answered for Dean, who merely looked down at his scuffed boots like a youngster who had just gotten his rifle taken away from him for the weekend because apparently there's a difference between using it against _evil_ and using it against a _squirrel_. (Hey, that's what kind of childhood they had.) He glanced up when he heard his brother's suddenly even and unyielding voice. His brows had risen a little, and his full lips formed a slight 'O' shape. He quickly wiped off the look, and locked the trunk.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Words nor gestures were no longer exchanged between the boys. Sam lay stretched out on the motel bed, one arm draped over his chest, the other folded behind his head. One leg stayed straight, his foot dangling off the edge of the bed, the other bent at the knee. His eyes fluttered every now and then but remained opened, and a cell phone rested in the center of his chest.

Dean brushed his teeth in the bathroom, his tired gaze avoiding his reflection. The door was shut and locked. After he brushed each individual tooth for a considerable amount of time, he began to floss. His skillful hands moved slowly, working out that evil plaque. Yeah, these demons he could get at. Take that, bitch—this mint-flavored floss was his superpower. _Bam_, _watcha_!

The fluorescent light bulb flickered. His eyes shot up. His arms fell to his sides. Green floss dangled from his mouth, nested between two teeth. He didn't breath, he didn't move—except for a shudder. The shudder unexpectedly ripped through him, and he grabbed the side of the sink with a shaky breath.

_What the hell_? After a pause, his eyes moved forward, and stared straight across into the mirror. For some reason, he found that he wasn't exactly surprised to see the dark gray form of the "creature" standing behind him. Their eyes met in the mirrored reflection. Those were still the saddest, most pained pair of eyes Dean had ever seen. Only this time…

He understood? Maybe.

That didn't stop him from feeling pissed off. There wasn't anything he could do right now, and it bothered him so much. _Need more_… Time? Information? Both. Either way, he wasn't about to let some bitch not-so-much ghost boy tug on his heartstrings.

Subconsciously, the revolver burned in his pant's pocket, reminding him it was there, but he had chosen to ignore it.

And now with one hand still griped the side of the sink, he used his free hand to shift forward and to open the cabinet door. Since the mirror now faced the wall, he paused, every muscle in his body tense. Finally, he let go of the sink, and grabbed his tube of toothpaste with a wicked smile.

"_You attacked it with toothpaste? It's meant to kill bad breath, not demons."_

Oh, that Sammy.

He took a deep, steady breath, and shut the cabinet door. His reflection was back, and only his eyes stared back at him. He sneezed, nearly knocking himself off his feet by surprise. Dean promptly regained his composure, but still pressed a palm to his forehead and laughed.

He shed his clothing, and unlocked the door before he stepped into the shower.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Sam tried not to fight off the sleep fatigue that called out to him, but he was too distracted to give in. He strained to hear for any sudden disturbances in the bathroom. Sure, he pissed off Dean, and Dean pissed him off, but as if that would ever stop him from fulfilling his annoying younger brother duties. Sure, he and Dean had different books to go by, but they were on the same chapter.

He didn't want Dean to retreat into his own shell—world. He didn't want to see his brother live lifelessly in the hospital, or watch him waste away. He felt sympathy for Corinne, and found that he understood why she'd lie and cover up things to protect her son. But her earlier words had been spoken with such certainty…

"_He's dead."_

Dead to the world, he assumed, but one look at Dean's face when he saw him told him otherwise. Dean saw through it; he saw _more_. But what did he see? Besides, the boy had responded to him—or at least Dean. Blinking was something, and there was no such thing as a coincidence in the lives of the Winchesters.

His eyelids suddenly felt strangely heavy, and they began to droop. He could feel himself drift away into a much-needed sleep, but… why was he so cold all of a sudden? It seemed like it was cradling him… and that gave him goose bumps. But it was such a _bitter_ cold. Very harsh, very angry—when did cold sudden get personified?

Sam… 

"Dean?" His eyes shot open, and he let out a half-yell when he saw the creature that hovered above him. Sam rolled off the bed, nearly throwing himself to the ground. He hit the back of his head on the wooden nightstand, but that didn't slow him down at all. He grabbed the pistol that he kept securely in the waistband of his jeans, and aimed it at the gray, ghostly form. He cocked it, one finger pressed on the trigger.

The bathroom door flung open, and a breathless Dean stood in the doorway, clad in only boxers. His eyes were wide, and locked on Sam, who kneeled directly across from him; positioned in the space between the two beds, and had a gun aimed at him. He tilted his head to the side challengingly.

The ghost was gone, but Sam's finger was still pressed against the trigger. His hand shook, his face was pale, and his head ached. He wanted out—he didn't want to do this anymore. He didn't want Dean to do this anymore. He wanted Dean to get his voice back, and he wanted them gone, to shag ass, to out of there; no looking back, no wondering _could've_, _should've_, _would've_.

Dean hadn't put his hands up. He hadn't motioned for his brother to put down the gun. There wasn't a split second where he thought Sam would pull the trigger at him, and this was a loaded pistol after the events that took place at the asylum where Sam, who wasn't in the right state of mind, did pull the trigger at him, and shoot him not only with rock salt but with words too.

Sam dropped the gun onto the bed with a defeated sigh. "It was here." He explained, not surprised when Dean nodded, like he knew that. "I—I didn't feel threatened but…" He hated it. It had attacked his brother, and that was a crime, a sin, something unforgivable. He put a hand to the back of his head, and gingerly touched the bump that already began to form there.

Dean walked around the bed, extending a hand to Sam. Once he helped him to his feet, he silently asked if he was all right, his mouth moved slowly with the words. Sam squinted at his lips, but nodded, shrugging off what had just happened for now. "Fine." He told him, "fine."

Dean, being the one who's used out that word, gave him a solemn nod. He knew otherwise; he knew his brother. When he said that to Sam, the bugger would continue asking him the question, and there'd be this look in his eyes that told Dean he knew, but wanted to hear it for himself.

But that was Sam, and this was Dean. He patted Sam's shoulder, and then left to finish getting changed. There weren't any words or gestures that he could use, now or ever, but he'd always be there to kick the ass of whoever and whatever wrongfully decided to mess with his little brother.

Dean didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, but he did more so with a loaded gun. Don't let that fool you; he had a sharpened knife _up_ his sleeve. And what was that behind his back…?

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Sam wanted to have another chitchat with Corinne. Dean wanted to see Drew again. Sam argued that Corinne would be easier to break than a catatonic boy. Dean argued back, with the help of paper and a pen since he kept breaking the tip of his pencil, that Corinne would most likely have him thrown into the slammer if he even did so much as approach her.

"So what do you want us to do?" Sam's voice had shook. "Grab an Ouija board and go ask the _house_?" Dean smirked at the thought of them having their own specialized Ouija board. It'd be pretty badass! And it'd probably have faded Led Zeppelin and B.O.C. stickers on the back, and maybe even a sticker that could read, 'Got Shining?'

Corinne had tried to pull a fast one on the boys, and Sam felt pissed off that he hadn't gotten any weird vibes from her; like that she was lying. Oh, that Corinne was a smooth one, yes she was. But you do not mess with a guy whose last name is the name of a rifle.

And that's why they went to the library. (Sure, the eldest hadn't wanted to go, but when Sam gave him those eyes…) Dean lead the way, inwardly worried about his little brother; he didn't want anything to happen to him, like get his voice stolen, because, honestly, it hurt like a bitch and a half.

Corinne noticed her company quickly, because, what the hell, who wouldn't notice those boys? She immediately grabbed the phone on the desk, already threatening to call the police. She looked past Sam and straight at Dean, who greeted her with a fake, wide smile and a chummy wave of the hand.

"Please, we just want to talk." Sam took a step forward, clearing his throat with pleading eyes. His arm brushed against Dean's, and he gave him a warning glare to behave before he looked back at Corinne. He needed to coax her out of calling the police because he really didn't feel like ever calling daddy dearest to bail them out of jail… because they'd never get out.

"I'm so sure." Corinne snapped, not putting down the phone. "You guys have no right coming here and—"

"I'm not trying to stir up old business. I'm here because my brother—" Dean took a cautious step back right as Sam blindly motioned his long arms towards him. A vein protruded from his forehead, and he just couldn't stand to hear her snap at him like a broken record. _Who do you think you are, it's not appreciated_… "—Can't speak--_at all_. As long as he's in pain, then so am I."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She didn't sound too apologetic. "But there is nothing I can do." She put the phone to her ear, the rest of her statement—'but I can call the police'—left unsaid.

"Fine, we're leaving!" Sam snapped when she dialed the first number, and then the second… and then the third. "But we're going back to that house—" There was a threat undertone in his voice. Dean noticed that, and waggled a finger in her direction. "—And we're going to do something about all this messed up—"

"Stay out of there!" The phone slammed down. The noise echoed.

"Why?" He squinted at her, thirsty for information.

"Just stay out of there, or I will call the police for trespassing and—"

Enough was enough. Sam stalked out, his shoelaces untied, practically stomping his feet. Dean followed, a hand at his throat, and his eyes met Corinne's red ones before the door swung shut behind him.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"Home sweet home."

_My ass_, Dean politely added. He exchanged a look with Sam, who smiled goofily like he knew what he just thought. _What if Sam ever went all Jean Grey? _Dean momentarily pondered, and then shuddered at the thought of Sam being able to read his mind. Now, now, that would be a story for another time!

Obviously, they were back at—_in_—the house. Sam carried a knapsack, prepared for anything. Dean hadn't even worn a jacket; he was feeling a bit warm, too warm. He twirled the flashlight around, the bright light shone against the walls and ceiling. If he could, he'd be whistling the X-Files tune.

"Should we have knocked?" Sam asked. He scrunched up his nose when he felt a sneeze coming on. Dean looked back pointedly at the broken down wooden door. The younger brother grinned sheepishly, and then sneezed. His head jerked forward, his long dark tresses whipped forward like waves crashing on a beach. Dean brushed off his shoulder.

The screen door that they hadn't knocked on because of the future event crashed to the floor of the porch. The unexpected noise made both brothers jump. Dean bumped into Sam, who had grabbed his brother's elbow. They were unusually far too jumpy, not just cautious.

"Careful." The brunette mumbled after letting go of Dean's arm. Dean tilted his chin up at him and gave him a dirty look that said '_bitch, please_,' as the taller male brushed past him and took the lead. "Upstairs we go."

_Dude, you don't need to narrate_. Dean thought hard at him, but Sam didn't do much as glare back at him as they made their way up the creaking stairs. Damn, maybe he should get superpower-ed up with telepathy. Sam would probably go insane if he had Dean's voice in his head as well as out. But, just as before, that's _another_ story for _another_ time.

"Okay, maybe they've gone out—"

_And forgot to put up the 'be back in ten' sign up?_ Oh, Sam would have shot him such a 'oh, shut up' look for that one.

Quite predictably, doors to the second floor rooms all opened in unison like a gush of wind just tore through them, and then they slammed shut loudly. Rinse and repeat. The gloomy atmosphere just got gloomier… and angrier.

"Stop it!" Dean's voice yelled out of nowhere, anywhere… somewhere. Everything came to a still, even the Winchester's breathing momentarily. It was still a surprise to hear Dean's voice coming from somewhere that wasn't his mouth or ass.

After taking a slow, deep breath, Dean raised his brows, like _oh, really_, and puckered his lips contemplatively. He nudged Sam, who'd gone all tense but then nudged him back, as if _don't nudge me_, so Dean nudged him again, like _what are you going to do about it_? Followed by another teasing nudge—_huh, Sammy, huh_?

Before Sam could nudge—or hit—him back, Dean's voice was back, this time much more softer. "I've been waiting for you."

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪


	7. Chapter 7

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

A small vial of holy water slipped out from between his fingers. It shattered against the floor, thin shards flew, and the water sizzled and bubbled.

The hallway seemed to grow smaller. A cold wind swirled around, making the fine hairs on the back of their necks and forearms stand straight on edge. The sound of creaking like someone was walking around on the old floors echoed from each and every given direction.

Sam yelled. Dean flailed his arms frantically.

Wood cracked, ripped apart. A portion of floorboard under Sam's foot gave out. He stumbled forward into Dean, his chest pressed into his back.

"Don't be afraid." Dean's disembodied voice asked of them. Sam's bottom lip quivered, his chin hit lightly against the back of his brother's head when he looked up, his eyes as wide as plates, wild and confused. The voice was so soft, so naïve, and so not his Dean's.

"Oh, right. Sure!" His voice is thick and heavy with sarcasm and anger when told not to panic. The brothers simultaneously ducked when a piece of wood paneling flew over their heads. "No—" He whipped out his gun, and cocked it. Judging the dangerous glint in his eye, he must've been channeling his brother. "—Freakin'—" Dean jerked away from him when he pressed the trigger, the gun aimed at a wall. "—Problem!"

"You're upsetting it!" A stomping noise was heard; it emphasized the ghost's cry.

Another shot was heard, and it almost seemed like the house shook, like it had a shiver—_okay, a shiver of rage maybe_. "Yeah, well, it upset me _first_!" Sam stupidly lashed back, currently out of practice with comebacks and insults. It's a bit challenging to banter with the mute, no matter how expressive they may be.

By now, Dean was getting a little bored. He'd done exorcisms before, he has had things thrown into him, animate and inanimate, and he has been thrown into countless things, again animate and inanimate, so, really, he faced this house with an indifferent _whatever_. However, the _out of order_ post-it note stuck to his voice box proved to mark the difference between those times and this instance.

"I didn't ask for help so you could do _this_."

"_Ask for help_? You didn't 'ask for help.'" Sam spat out, breathing hard. "You _stalked_ us and… and you rendered my brother _mute_. And… oh, god, and you're communicating using…" He had to trail off because this was just too much to take in—it was absurd! It was crazy, outrageous, far-fetched, totally kind of creepy, and… and… he really needed to sit down.

Dean, who was indeed getting wise in his old age, pried the gun from Sam's fingers. Not because he wasn't for pissing off the house, but because he wasn't in the mood to deal with police. Who knew if the neighbors would report the gunshots? Well, Sam _could_ know, but god freaking forbid if his visions would ever personally help them out… _like with winning the lottery._

"Help him. Ask how." The shorter Winchester asked, snapping out the words soundlessly after Sam swatted his demanding hands away from the gun that he clutched. Sam blinked, the wheels in his head doing overtime as he processed the thought _why hadn't I thought of that_? Maybe because you were too busy quarrelling with a ghost, huh?

And so, Sam finally asked the question they've wanted answers to for the longest time—or at least, the past week, which did feel like the longest time. He asked about the house, about himself, why he chose Dean, them, what was going on… everything. When he kept going on, Dean nudged him in the ribs, an action that said _dude, stop already_.

There was a pause, and a door across from them flung open. The only light in the room came from the glow of the late evening sky that passed through a window. The creature—the boy—stood in front of the window. "I'm stuck here." He stated simply, his long, lanky form trembled when the door slammed shut after Sam and Dean strolled into the room. "_Trapped_."

The house seemed to calm down all of a sudden; all went quiet, still.

_Huh. Nice demonstration_. Dean thought. He took out his flashlight and clicked it on, the light blinding him. He let out a grunt that burned his throat; his eyes squinted as he turned his head away, and aimed the flashlight at the creature.

"Cut that out!" It was a hiss; irritation underlined the tone of voice. The ghost quickly caught himself and moved on. "My mother… she did this to me."

"Corinne?" Sam exhaled sharply. _I shouldn't be too surprised_, he realized. _She did tell me he was dead_. Yeah, she could've just said dead_ish_. What a hag. "Why would your mother do this to you?"

"Ah, well, Sam, maybe 'cause she's buckets full of crazy?" That would be Dean's response if he weren't cursed with muteness. He kicked at the end of a floorboard that stuck up, and quietly added, "She sure ain't runner-up for the Mother of The Year award."

"Because—" Red and blue lights flashed from outside. There was the sound of two car doors slamming shut, and Sam's chest tightened. He exchanged a panicked look with his brother; both of them shared the same thought.

"She called the police." He felt lightheaded with anger. "She _called_ the _police_." He repeated, stressing the right words when they remained frozen. "We have to get out of here _now_." Sam was way too pretty for jail. "We'll be back." He told the ghost, and Dean quietly added the '_I promise_.'

Sam could hear the muffled mumbles of the officers downstairs. "We'll have to go through a window." He whispered hastily. Dean's top lip curled up, and Sam, having sensed the sarcastic comment ("_no, I thought we'd hold hands and skip merrily downstairs to use the front door_.") that would've come, told him to shut up.

Luckily, the room across the hall had a window that led to the back roof. The roof wasn't in any better condition than the rest of the house, but when they heard the sounds of stairs creaking, they realized they didn't have any other choice 'cause they were not about to be someone's bitches. Then again, these boys would probably own the place. You just don't mess with a guy with bow hunting skills—or his younger, taller brother… who can probably kick your ass anyway.

"Stay low." A pause. "Stop walking so heavily!" A gentle shove that screamed back, _you stop walking so heavily_. Sam scoffed and sat down on the roof while he silently prayed to any God that would listen for the roof not to cave in. He scooted down to peer over the edge. Lady Luck was crushing on the Winchesters tonight, because right below them was a roof from an extended room—the kitchen maybe? Bah, who cares about the floor plans of the house, move it!

"Get the keys out, 'cause as soon as our feet hit the ground…" Dean nodded; the car keys already dangled from his hand. And thanks to an adrenaline rush, they pulled it off effortlessly. The boys hopped down to the first floor roof, and leaped off. Their feet dug into the damp ground; mud splattered their shoes and pants. They ran as fast as their legs would carry them to the Impala that was parked just half a block away without looking back—

They hadn't needed to look back to feel the eyes that burned into their backs.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Well, that Corinne was certainly off the Winchester's Christmas card list.

"Of course she didn't go to work today." Sam snapped, half-muttering to himself. He carelessly swung open the driver's side door, and plopped himself down into the seat. Dean winced at his actions, and bit down on his lip. He nearly drew blood when Sam slammed the door shut. He swore he heard her cry out. "And the other librarian wouldn't give me her address!"

_Huh. There's a shocker_. Dean sullenly figured. His arms were folded against his chest.

"Maybe Google will help us out on this one." Sam started up the engine. Good ole Google—making stalking easier since 1999. "Besides, Scranton isn't _that_ big. We'll find her."

Dean looked sideways slyly. Not that big? Mmk, Sammy. But there was no way in hell Dean was going to go door to door to look for the deceiving woman; they didn't have the Girl Scout uniforms for that.

They drove back to the motel, where the manager approached them like a hungry lion to two zebras. He reminded them—or rather, Sam, since he'd been the one making the payments—that other people could use their room, so they'd better make with the credit card.

Dean went to their room, biting back comments he couldn't crack out anyway, to get a head start. Sam strolled in minutes later as the laptop rebooted.

"Anything?" He asked anxiously, which earned an obscene gesture from Dean for being too impatient. "Ooh, cranky." He mumbled under his breath. Dean's eyes shot up to meet his briefly for an "I heard that" look. Sam merely shrugged sheepishly. "What is it?" He perked up when Dean made a face—good or bad? (Or a bad look on a good face?) He moved to behind his brother and peered over his shoulder.

_Shoo_. Dean waved at him persistently. Being the younger brother, Sam was obligated not to move, but to move in closer, squinting down at the screen.

Okay, she's not listed… but relatives are." The brunette rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "Now, how do we get family member to tell us?"

After a pregnant pause, Dean smirked. Sam felt wary.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"Okay—at least we're not priests… or FBI agents… or Bikini Inspectors… or alarm maintenance associates… or—"

_Dude. Shut your cakehole_.

"We're _flower boys_."

_Delivery men!_ Dean waved a bouquet of flowers in Sam's direction—a threat to shut his "cakehole" or he'll be hacking up flowers for a month.

Sam sighed drearily, not wanting to know where Dean, who was mute for crying out loud, got the uniforms, or the truck, or all the flowers. It was better left unasked and unanswered.

So, the boys were clad in purplish gray work jumpsuits with a pink decal of the business's logo printed on the back. They felt pretty, witty, and…

"Is there anything I should know about? I mean, are there two men, half-dressed, gagged, and tied up in the back?" Sam just had to ask after he climbed into the yellow truck. It smelled sweetly of flowers. He glanced into the back of the truck, where it looked like Walt Disney threw up—so many different flowers of so many different colors.

Dean didn't answer in the negative… or in the positive for that matter. He grabbed a visor, which matched their lovely uniforms, off the dashboard and slipped it on with mocked enthusiasm before starting up the truck.

Sam sighed again, only this time with the ghost of a smile as he shook his head. "All right, the first name on this list lives on…" He took out the crumbled sheet of paper, flattening it over his thigh. "Division St."

And there they went, the manliest flower boys ever.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Three times is the charm. The first house? No one home, or at least the house was dark and no one answered. Hello, two guys hotter than eighteen suns standing outside your door? I don't care, male or female, you open that goddamn door… and try not to faint, or make a fool out of yourself.

Now, the second house? People home, people answered, people had no idea who they were looking for; people not related.

Third house? And Bingo was his name-o. An elderly woman answered the door and instantly fell victim to Sam's puppy dog eyes, and Dean's innocent smile. Sam charmed her with his words, and looked genuinely surprised when she informed them they had the wrong Connor.

"That's so sweet. Corinne'll love 'em." She commented dearly, eyeing the basket of flowers Dean was stuck holding—Psychic boy uses his charm, and mute boy gets kicked down to sidekick and holds the pretty flowers. He felt like holding up a sign that read, "will hunt supernatural for leadership."

"Sorry about the mix up, ma'am." Sam reached for the slip of paper but she unexpectedly pulled back.

"Now, who did you say they're from?" Ok, so the old bat wasn't as senile as she looked. Panic striking at his heart, Sam glanced down at the fake chart he was holding in one arm. Beads of sweat popped up along his hairline.

"It just says Christine. No last name." He verified, and then leaned forward, taking the slip of paper in the least "give me!" way he could. "Thank you." He nodded at Dean for them to leave. His eyes screamed with victory.

Dean gave the woman a courtesy bow ("Haha, you've been played, and by a master no less!"). Then he waddled after his brother, anxious to stab him with the flowers for trying to lower his position. Dean never dealt those 'sidekick' cards.

But maybe this was a whole new game…

Sam got into the passenger side, and took out a map to look up the address. He hadn't needed to be asked, or to be told. He knew what to do.

… And yet, maybe it wasn't.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

It was a friendly white house with a neat little white fence surrounding it. Not much protection in a fence that could break so easily if someone, oh like Sam, were to stumble into it. Dean shot his brother a look, and Sam grinned down guiltily at his untied shoelaces. Anyway, the front yard was neatly decorated with colorful assortments of flowers. Nothing seemed out of place, Sam realized, not feeling any weird or dark vibes.

The boys, by now, had changed out of the uniforms, and wore civvies. The truck had been graciously traded back for the awesome Impala. Dean had patted the faithful car, silently apologizing for leaving it out. The car, though hesitantly, accepted his apology.

Sam went in first, Dean closely behind, shutting the gate behind them. He stopped halfway up the pathway. Sam already was making his way up the front stairs.

Dean suddenly heard barking, and spun around to see a beautiful white dog. He smiled at it, but that gorgeous "hey there, puppy" smile dropped when the mutt growled and continued to bark at him. _Oh shit, down Cujo!_ The dog made a vicious move towards him. Dean, in long, quick strides, made his way over to Sam, and grabbed his arm as he rang the doorbell.

"Dean, it's a _Pomeranian_." Dean shot him an exasperated look—_I've seen Blade: Trinity_! The small dog scurried onto the porch, still yapping away at Dean. Sam rang the doorbell once more before he looked back at the scene behind him. "Why Dean, you aren't carrying dog biscuits in your pocket again, are you?" He laughed, despite the murderous glowering that came from Dean.

The front door swung open, and Corinne stood there, her appearance rugged and tired. Her eyes were noticeably red. "What?" She demanded to know with a defeated sigh, not looking too surprised that they had found out where she lived.

"What did you do to your son?" Sam bluntly asked, his voice soft, but filled with resentment. His jaw was tightened considerably, but that might've been from the death grip Dean still had on his arm as he tried to shoo away the dog.

Corinne stared ahead, emotionless. However, her cracking voice betrayed her greatly. "You don't know anything."

"Yeah?" He challenged without doubt.

"Yes, or else you wouldn't be here." Her angry eyes fell from his cold stare to her pet that was still trying to get a taste of Dean. Must be a fangirl. She didn't call the little terror off, so Sam crouched down and scooped it up into his arms. He turned back to her, holding the beast against his chest tightly enough so it wouldn't escape.

"I know your son did something to my brother." His tone of voice was icy, accusing. "And I know that in order to _save_ him—" Dean noticed his choice of words, and looked over at him. Save? "—You have to reverse whatever it is you did."

Corinne remained unaffected by his words. "My son couldn't have done anything to your brother." She told him dubiously. "You saw him in the hospital. He doesn't even know where he is." Her eyes watered up. She struggled to keep her tone even. "Whatever it is you _think_ you know, you're wrong."

"You know what's going on in that house! Or else you wouldn't have called the police." Sam bent down enough for the dog to drop safely to the ground. Sensing the tension, the Pomeranian raced inside. Corinne's face twisted up like she was in pain—emotional and physical. She begged for them to leave, to keep away from the house, but neither one moved, and Sam only urged for her to tell them what she did.

Dean felt his own eyes start to water up at the sight. She was a wreck—they were way over their heads, maybe. But he stood strong next to his brother. He wanted to be able to speak again; he wanted to figure this out.

"My son, Drew." Corinne gasped, tears rolling down her flushed cheeks. "He's a _murderer_." She rolled her hands into fists and weakly struck Sam in the chest. Dean nudged him back, taking a cautious step forward, barely leaving any room between him and the older woman. "Is that what you know, you _Sonofabitch_!" Heart wrenching sobs escaped her lips that could no longer remain tightly locked. She doubled over, whispering, "but he's a good boy," over and over.

Both Dean and Sam felt sick—

—And awfully confused.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪


	8. Chapter 8

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

_Demons I get. People are crazy_. Yeah, that was certainly Dean's philosophy. He paced around the living room, picking up ceramic figurines, looking at pictures that perfectly captured those quirky Kodak moments. He fixed crooked frames that hung on the wall while Sam tried to console Corinne. He helped himself to the glass dish of Hershey's Kisses on the fireplace mantel.

"We're here to help." Dean heard his distressed tone and smirked as he unwrapped a piece of candy. "You've got to trust us and tell us everything you know." Even though he had his back turned to them, he knew Sam was using that inane puppy dog look, but being a mother, Corinne was probably immune to it. He plopped the chocolate into his mouth and stuffed a few more pieces in his pockets for later.

"You won't understand." Corinne sat on her couch, her knees brought up to her chest. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her legs and she rested her chin between her knees. Mascara and tears stained her cheeks. She looked vulnerable, scared, and very guilty. Sam put a supporting hand on her shoulder, and told her to _make_ them understand. Hesitantly, she started, her voice shaking. "I had two sons…"

Dean's hands left the candy dish like it had burned him, and he turned around slowly. Sam's innocent eyes tried to meet his, but he instantly averted his gaze. His stomach churned like he already knew what she was going to say. However, he sat down in the recliner besides the couch, urging her to continue while the chocolate still melted in the godly nirvana that is Dean's mouth.

Corinne shook her head, and dropped her feet to the white-carpeted floor. She exhaled sharply, closing her eyes. "I don't even know what happened." Her eyes remained closed. "Andrew said he wanted to help around the house, and offered to give his baby brother a bath while I made dinner." She furrowed her brow as she relived the horrendous day on the back of her eyelids. "But when I went to check on them…"

A knot formed in Dean's throat, and he looked down interestedly at his clasped hands. Oh, look, he could twiddle his thumbs… _You will not fall victim to a chick flick moment, you will not_… Sam, on the other hand, gave Corinne's shoulder a firm, sympathetic squeeze. His other hand trembled with disbelief. Drew was barely a teenager, he wouldn't… it was his brother—his _little_ brother. Brother!

"He was hunched… over the bathtub… holding down… Jamie." She clasped a hand over her mouth, visibly shaken up, and Sam was feeling horrible for making her experience this pain again. He looked over at Dean for support, for _something_, but his brother's head was still bowed down. "I pushed him back… but it was too late. He drowned… him… he _drowned_ his baby brother."

_What do I say? _Sam's eyes screamed out to Dean: _give me direction_. The older male picked at something under his fingernail, and… and was that chocolate on his lips? Oh, come on. He nervously chewed on the inside of his cheek, drawing blood. "H-how did Drew end up in the hospital?" _How did Drew end up with the possessed house? How do we stop it, him?_ Oh, god, was she ever in for a game of twenty questions.

But when Corinne answered with a breathless, "I did it to him," Dean's eyes shot up, alert. She sniffled a few times, regaining herself. "And I don't regret it." The mortified look written all over her face said otherwise. "I had to save my son, I had to. He didn't mean to do it, I know he didn't, so I helped him, but…" She shook her head, her glossy eyes staring off like her son was sitting in front of her.

"How did you… _save_ him?"

"With—" She answered simply. "—With a spell."

"I hope you remember that spell."

She didn't say anything.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Ten minutes after they had left Corinne's house, the brothers sat motionless in the parked car, speechless, shocked, and betrayed. Sam had seen the look in Dean's hazel eyes when they left. It was such an intense look that he'd never seen before, and to be honest, it frightened him. _We're not going to get a boy get away with trying to fuck with us_, Dean's body language had snapped. He now sat in the driver's seat, absently chewing on fingernail.

Dean sat with his weight against the passenger door. His hands were balled into tight fists; his fingernails bit into the thick skin of his palm. His eyes were closed, and his lips formed a tight, straight line. His facial complexion was a bit pale, but his cheeks were flushed. One eye opened a slit, and then promptly closed when he saw this brother was studying him with concerned eyes.

"Do you have any ideas?" Sam asked after he looked away. His voice cracked with uncertainty, and with need that told Dean that being mute didn't necessarily take him out of the game. Sam leaned on him, and he leaned on Sam. When he heard a rustle, Sam tentatively looked back over and arched an inquiring brow.

_We'll play his game_. Dean had written on the back of a receipt. _Our rules_. The slip of paper had been so causally slipped into Sam's hand. He stared down at it fixedly, his eyes moving back and forth like he was memorizing each letter. Understanding chocolate-colored orbs suddenly lifted up, and he nodded, swallowing hard.

_At least I'm driving so he won't try to go bowling with the house_… It occurred to him that Dean would never do that to his precious car… but that flower truck? Heh. Despite the situation, a small hint of a smile appeared on Sam's face as he started the car up. But the mental image of Dean, in that ridiculous Flower Boy get-up, driving that truck into the house… and flowers exploding everywhere…? Priceless.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

They stood in front of the house, unmoving and tense. Dean never wanted to step foot into or have to deal with the house ever again, but he _had_ to. What he wanted didn't matter; it was about what he must to do. "You remember what she said, right?" Sam verified in a voice no higher than a whisper. Dean answered him with a look that said he'd never forget. "Ready?"

_No_. The anger he felt made him lightheaded and his chest tight. But Dean had felt this kind of rage before. He thought back to the shtriga—the doctor everyone had put his or her trust and faith in, and how he'd been the one doing all the damage. In the end, he shot at the demon, and killed it. But now, this was an adolescent, a boy… a _murderer_. He nodded yes.

As he entered the house, Dean felt like whistling, slapping his thighs, and calling out to Drew like you would to, oh, lets say a dog. A murderous, voice-stealing dog, that is. Come here! Come here, oh, yes, who's my boy? Who's my demonic bitch? Aww, yes you are, yes you are! Instead, he took out a Hershey's Kiss, sloppily ripped off the foil, and popped it into his mouth.

Sam aimed the flashlight at him and gave him a stern look. Dean shrugged hopelessly and offered Sam, who just scoffed and walked away in the direction of the stairs. Dean rubbed his fingers together, and the bits of foil dropped to the ground. He hurried after Sam, purposely nudging him in the lower back with his flashlight as they made their way upstairs.

_Upstairs_. Sam paused when he almost reached the top, his eyes flickering with realization. He gripped the wobbly banister, stumbling forward slightly when Dean bumped into him for his abrupt stop. _It's always upstairs_. He pushed back the information, knowing that it would soon be vital. "Sorry." He murmured to Dean, who had just tapped his shoulder with the flashlight, which was brother code for, "you all right, dude?"

Or, well, it could've been impatient code for "hurry your ass up," but we won't go with the latter on this one, mmk?

_Is it darker in here?_ Sam wondered, squinting in the darkness. He used the flashlight he held to guide them to the room where they were last talking to Drew before getting rudely interrupted by local authorities. _I hope the floor and ceiling wait to cave in until after we leave_. Sam was _such_ an optimistic, you see, and he'd like to see them escape without injury—but oh, shit, he just jinxed himself.

"Drew?" He called out, using his free hand to push his long fringe away from his eyes. Dean's arm lightly brushed past his own as he walked by him, smacking his lips. He stopped in the center of the room, and zipped up his thin jacket.

"It's lonely here." Dean's voice whispered, sounding truly sad. His dark form materialized in front of the window once again. His head was bowed down, his chin to his chest, and his eyes were assumingly closed. "And so… so cold." The voice sounded broken… lost.

"You were able to leave." Sam pointed out. It took much self-control not to lash out, verbally and physically, at Drew. He glimpsed over quickly at Dean, who remained expressionless, but Sam knew it'd be his body language to deceive him. "I've seen you… our motel, right? It's where you attacked my brother." He coolly said attacked, oh, like you'd say _danced with_. _Got to keep my cool_… Too bad his poker face sucked.

"I didn't _attack_ your brother." That perceptibly struck a nerve. Under the sole of his shoe, Sam felt a nail unscrewing up and walked up besides his brother. "And it takes too much energy to leave, the force is too strong…"

Sam ignored him. "Why _him_?" _Why not me?_ Yeah, like he ever needed another reason to brood. "And if you have his voice—" If? "—Then why didn't your physical form use it to verbally communicate with us at the hospital?"

The creature's head shot up. Sam was struck at how human-like his eyes were, but now his body was a mere gray mass. "I'm not connected with my body. I can't control it." He spat out the words like the older male should've known. Sam mentally cursed, knowing he'd have to move on before suspicion could arise.

"Now, if we help you, will my brother be able to speak again?" Dean shot him a look, like, '_aww, you really do miss my voice, don't you_?' Sam gave him a look back; glaring at him, all like, '_don't make me eat my words_.' Dean shrugged one shoulder unceremoniously, silently reminding Sam that he'd forever be his singing alarm clock. Finally, they exchanged a confused look, wondering if they've been receiving mixed looks and gestures.

"Yes." Drew hastily promised certainly, and Dean expressed a solemn nod, chin tilted high, totally like, _damn straight_. Sam, however, wasn't too convinced. Too many lies had been threaded through the truth. He didn't know who to believe, what to believe, or if there was any truth in anything; did the lies ever stop?

"Then prove it." In the distance, he heard a rattling sound. "I want to hear Dean's voice… come from Dean's mouth."

Drew's response still came just as quickly as the first--no hesitation, no reconsidering. "No."

"_Then_ we'll mail you a house warming gift." They had to do _something_ with all those flowers. Dean resisted the urge to smack his forehead. He looked over at Sam; a vein pulsed in his forehead, mentally yelling at him not to start things up yet as much as he wanted to.

"_Then_ have fun learning sign language." Sam's voice had been cold, a threat underlined, as did Drew's. The window rattled violently until the glass shattered. With one arm raised in front of his face, Dean staggered back and grabbed Sam's shoulder, pushing him away from the flying shards. "Why are you being so mean to me?" Dean's voice demanded, or rather _whined_, sounding so childish, so hurt, and Dean wondered if he ever really sounded like that.

"Because--" Sam turned back, facing the creature, his voice trembling with anger. Dean knew what was coming, but didn't stop it—he closed his eyes and cringed. When they finally ended what they started, Dean made a note to make sure Sam stopped channeling him. Gosh, it was like looking into a much less handsomer mirror… "---We're not kind to _murderers_."

Part of the ceiling above them caved in.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"_An old friend of mine… she examined Drew… and she told me that she believed me, that it wasn't my son. I knew he was a good boy. She told me she could help me—us, and I was desperate."_ Corinne's earlier words came back, mixing in with the darkness that grabbed and poked at him, but in his mind, he saw everything—Drew forcing his infant brother under the shallow water, a tearful yet hopeful Corinne talking to a woman…

"_She told me an exorcism would work, but something went wrong… nothing had happened."_ It was only months earlier, and Sam stood in the middle of the house's living room, watching the scene unfold in front of his very eyes. There was an aching itch behind his eyes, but he pushed it away, ignoring it for now. "_She said the spirit had latched onto my son, and told me a spell would work, a spell would save him… it didn't."_

"_You liar!" Corinne had screamed at the older woman, holding her unconscious son in her arms. _His hands tingled, like they'd fallen asleep and were starting to wake up, and suddenly he was in the room upstairs. He noticed how different the house looked then… it looked more alive, friendly. It was just a small house that needed a willing, happy family to fix it up. "_What did you do to him?"_

_The woman had stood with her back to the sobbing Corinne, facing the window. "I saved him, like you wanted."_ She replied evenly, and for the first time, Sam noticed the candles circling them, he noticed the symbol scratched into the floor, and the blood that was smeared into the markings. "_He had a dark soul… there was no spirit. Makes you wonder what really happened the night your husband died, doesn't it?"_

_Horror and shock flashed in her bewildered eyes._ "_You bitch!" _Her son was a middle school student, he made the honor roll, he played soccer, he loved making rubber band balls… he was a murderer. _You can't destroy the house… only breaking the spell will work…_ Her mouth opened, and she continued screaming at her friend, but Sam let out a hiss of pain, grabbing at his forehead, and he fell to his knees. He closed his eyes…

And when they opened, he found that Dean's fingers were really digging into his shoulders as the older male shook him. He gasped loudly, like he'd been hold under water over his own limit, and immediately sat up. Dean was on his knees, breathing hard. He looked so tired, so defeated. His face was covered in soot, and blood dripped from his lips and off his chin; Dean had been calling to him, but obviously failed.

"I know what we have to do." He whispered, lightly touching his fingertips to his forehead. When he pulled away, he saw blood, and winced. Luckily, the Winchesters were blessed with Wolverine-esque healing powers, but he knew he'd have one hell of a headache later. With Dean's aid, he got to his feet, and he pulled out his knife from his pocket.

Dean's face was full of confusion, and he tried to shoot Sam some "give me answers or else" looks, but his younger brother was too busy kicking around the debris from the ceiling.

"On the floor—there's a symbol." Sam tried to explain, cursing at the lack of light. He picked up the flashlight, and got on his hands and knees, feeling around on the floor. "Oh, god." He mumbled, when he found that parts of the floor were rotting; yet there was a space where the floor looked nearly preserved… Eureka.

But you know, Drew's presence was still there. He demanded to know what he was doing, and Dean shrugged, sticking out his lips.

Sam didn't say anything. Using the blade of his knife, he scratched against the markings in the floor. "I'm breaking the spell." He finally yelled in annoyance when he heard wood cracking, and cold wind hitting his back. "This is what you want, isn't it? I'm freeing you!" Oh, why did this feel like such a mistake? He stabbed at the floor, refusing to reason with himself. He had to do this… for Dean.

"Why?"

Sam's body tensed up, and he slowed down, but didn't stop completely. "Don't worry, I'm not doing this for you."

And Dean stood there, not agreeing with Sam, but not stopping him. Dean never hesitation at the thought of killing a warped, evil mortal before, but now…

He couldn't change his ways. He _couldn't_.

But would he?

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"Corinne? It's Sam—listen, we did it, and you've got to get to the hospital now." Sam had tried Corinne's home phone, but only got the answering machine. Twenty minutes later, he was outside the house with Dean, who was sitting on the porch stairs, coughing, wheezing. He grasped Dean's shoulder, waiting for it… "I don't know if it worked, but… you know." He disconnected the call, and clumsily dropped the cell phone, not caring. "Dean?"

Dean waved his hand at him, trying to control his breathing. It had happened so quickly… Sam jumped up after finishing destroying the wood, and any wood near the symbol just in case, when Dean had the wind knocked out of his lungs. It suddenly got very warm in the room, and they got out as quickly as possible.

"Dean." He repeated, like a command, but then his cell phone rang. He reached down for it, and answered, Corinne's shaky, accusing voice reaching his ears before he could say a word.

_He's not there… he's not at the hospital… he's gone… what did you do?_

"Where could he be? Where could he _go_?" He could still hear Corinne's babbling voice on the other line, but he turned to Dean, and their eyes met.

The motel.

Which was closer to the hospital than the house.

Which was where they had a few weapons.

Oh, _shit_.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Apologies! This chapter… really sucked. By the third time I started rewriting it, I lost the feeling for it. The next chapter should be the last, but I probably won't update ever again because I'm going to **explode** from suspense before the finale airs next Thursday. Le sigh.


	9. Chapter 9

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Dean lunged for the keys, and Sam jumped back, dangling them high in the air. Sure, Dean could reach them easily (yeah, on his toes! _Oh, snap_!), which was why he had to keep hopping back, out of reach. At last, he pressed his free hand against his brother's chest, trying to push him away. He jiggled the keys. "First let me hear it, and then we'll go." Dean's upper lip curled in distaste when Sam's brows shot up to his hairline, challengingly.

Dean looked down, shaking his head while he knuckled his eyes. Finally, he replied monotonously. "You're my favorite brother." His voice was gravelly; also relatively weak, but it was there, and it was music to Sam's ears. He had winced as the words left his mouth, more so at the pain than anything else, but he kept a smirk on his face, trying to tell Sam otherwise.

Oh, and Sam, of course, couldn't stifle an ear-to-ear, boyish grin from taking control of the lower half of his face, but he managed not to hug his bother—_yet_, at least; as soon as this was over… He lifted his hand from Dean's chest and scratched idly at the back of his head. He couldn't help it when his eyes watered up—he was happy…!

… That his brother could go on, snapping out orders, sarcastic retorts, mocking celebrity icons, and could also merrily go back to flirting shamelessly. Justice and order was about to be restored in the world.

"You want to be left alone for a few minutes?" Dean grunted and made another go at the keys, but Sam did another super ballerina leap back. "Dude—" He croaked, miserable.

"I said we'd go, I didn't say you'd drive." Hah! He _so_ won this.

"I haven't forgotten you scratched up my car." Hah! He _so_ handed the keys over without as much as a blink. It wasn't until they were in the car when Sam finally questioned what he had said.

"_Favorite brother_? You hiding a few other brothers in your pocket, Dean?"

"Yeah, I'm packing enough Sammies for a dog sleighing team." He answered back in a beat, the roar of the mighty Impala's engine drowning out the end of his sentence, but no worries; Sam had heard him loud and clear. He watched his brother's lips move like a child watching the candy man fill up their plastic baggie with penny candy. There was sound coming from them! Granted, he sounded like he'd just gotten his tonsils removed, but it was sound! It was Dean's voice… coming out of Dean's _mouth_! _Halle—freaking—lujah._

Sam's goofy smile got impossibly wider. "Good, 'cause either way, you're stuck with me."

Dean rolled his eyes, and chose for once, despite the fact that his voice was back, _not_ to comment. However, when Sam didn't cool it with his visible giddiness, he muttered with feigned annoyance, "oh, knock it off."

"Like you're not dying to get sentimental."

"Oh, bite me, princess."

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"Should we knock?"

"It's _our_ room!" Dean stopped abruptly in front of the door, fishing around for the key in his pockets. He continuously cleared his throat like he expected his voice to disappear again. He scrunched his mouth to the side in thought as he tilted, his fingers feeling around in the wide pocket of his jeans for the silver key. A Hershey's Kiss mistakenly slipped out and fell to its death.

Sam watched from the corner of his eye while shifting weight from one leg to the other. "You lost—"

"The key." Dean interrupted weakly, holding up the key to prove his point. "You want to do the honors?"

"Just open the door." And so he did, and they cautiously walked into the dark motel room—in first, and Sam following. He flipped the light switch, not surprised at what they found.

"You said you'd help me." The boy said, his face emotionless as he stared at them from his spot on Dean's bed. Go figure, Dean decided. He wouldn't have went for the floral decorated bed either, although it irked him to see Drew scraping off the glow in the dark stars and moon on the headboard. The little guys had grown on him!

"That was before—"

"_Before what_?" The dark haired child hissed, and Dean cocked a defensive brow. It didn't help when he spotted his .45 on the nightstand between the beds, within the little elf's view and reach. Sam cleared his throat, uncomfortable.

"You—"

"_I what_?"

"Stop interrupting me!" It came out so childish that Dean almost turned around and asked him if he'd like some cheese with his _whine_. "I talked to your mother on the way here…" He trailed off with the younger boy's eyes flashed dangerously, and he slowly stood up. It was obvious how lethargic he was from being away from his body so long, even if he was there on some subconscious level. "And she's bringing—"

"_Bringing what_?" Drew asked lightly, his long, thin fingers reaching around the handle of the gun. His back was turned to the brothers, and he turned around, pointing it behind Dean's shoulder, at Sam.

"Help." Sam offered simply, staring him down. Why the hell did Dean leave a gun out? And not to mention the few knives on the table across the room, sprawled out next to the laptop. Dean half-expected to walk over to the table, and see that notepad was opened, and _all work and no play makes Drew a very dull boy_ typed over and over, and over…

"I want you to get me away from here." His hands had started to shake. He was really gripping that gun tightly.

"Sure, Sam, go pop open the truck." Okay, and Drew did not look amused. His gaze flickered over to Dean, and the older male shuddered at the lifeless glare he possessed.

"You're pathetic." He stated evenly, and Dean objected with a snort.

"Hey now, that's no way to talk to someone who _loaned_ you their voice." His words came out gruffly, and he stumbled on the last syllable, breaking into a coughing fit. "God, you wouldn't happen to mind if I happened to wander over there and got a drink of water, would you?" He heard Sam scoff, and possibly roll his eyes.

"Yes." Drew snapped, giving the eldest Winchester a dirty look.

"Well, too bad, 'cause I'm thirsty." And just like that, he walked over to the side of the room in long strides, the aim of the gun shakily following him.

"Stop!" The young boy yelled at him, frantic. "I said stop! Stop moving, or I will shoot, I'll shoot, I swear I'll shoot you dead!"

"Dean!" Sam also yelled at him, wondering what the hell he was thinking. His brain must've been traded for the return of his voice. The brunette made an attempt to move, but once again, the gun was aimed at his pretty little face. The gun practically cried, 'oh I could never shoot you! It'd be a sin, a crime of beauty!' but the tight finger on the trigger said otherwise. "Oh, come on, you already killed your younger brother, you really don't want to kill someone else's."

Oh, shit. The words had slipped out of his mouth before his brain could even process the thought, and Sam mentally cursed at himself, wondering when he started channeling Dean's _I have a death wish_ comments, and made a note to cut it the hell out _now_. Still, he hadn't regretted the words.

"Sam." Dean whispered, his body especially tense. He could practically _see_ the tension that clung to the stale air in the small room.

"He wasn't my brother—he was my mother's _other_ son." Drew coldly corrected, his pale skin even paler now. His eyes were wider than plates, and Sam only felt… pity for him. He didn't feel fear, just sympathy, like the kid needed a hug… and to be hit in the ass with a tranquilizer dart and taken away.

"You killed him because he didn't share all your genes?"

"He wasn't anything!"

"He was your _brother_!"

It was all just too much—he didn't need to argue about this! Without any hesitation, Drew fired at the wide-eyed Sam—and breathlessly blinked dumbfounded when it didn't go off. Dean grabbed him from behind, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, pulling him back. "What, you think I'm going to keep illegal _loaded_ guns lying about?"

Sam let out a sigh of relief, and almost laughed. _Oh, Dean_. Would he ever cease to amaze him? He watched Drew try to struggle out of Dean's grasp, but whatever. Dean, needless to say, had the upper hand, and the gun slipped out from Drew's fingers. Sam immediately grabbed for it, and when he checked it, he looked at Dean bewildered. "It's _loaded_, but the safety's on!"

"_Whoo_, imagine that. Guess—_ow_! The little shit just _bit_ me!" Sure enough, Drew, or the little shit, did, and even left teeth marks in Dean's wrist. The twelve-year-old squirmed about, whining to let him go. "Oh, yeah, I'll let you go all right, into the closet." Yes, because that's what the Winchesters did with psychotic children. They locked them in closets.

"That's child abuse!"

"And biting me? That's _Dean abuse_." And that's quite the felony! (But deeply loved by a certain awesome crowd.)

Suddenly, there was a loud knocking at the door behind Sam, and he tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans. When did I close the door? He wondered, but shrugged, and opened it.

"They kidnapped me!" Drew yelled when he saw his teary mother standing in the doorway, two bored looking men at her side.

"Oh, right, because you're like the puppy I've always wanted." Although his throat was still utterly sore, it looked (sounded?) like Dean's voice was getting back to normal—loud, sarcastic, and cherished.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"Hey, remember that Benders family? Maybe we should go find Elly May's long lost sister and hook them up." Later that night, Dean and Sam were eating their last meal in the motel—and the meal to mark this occasion? Burger King. (One of them had a coupon—buy one Whopper, get one free, and when you don't really have an income, you can't pass down a meal like that.)

Sam shook his head, biting in the grease—_cheese_burger. A piece of lettuce escaped from the back, but he didn't care, and just let it fall onto his lap, where it fainted. "I just hope Corinne gets the right help for him."

"Yeah, maybe next she'll see a witchdoctor and bind his soul with a tree stump instead or something." Sam shot him a look, not finding the humor.

"I meant _professional_ help, Dean."

"That's what I meant too, _Sam_." He shoved the last bit of his burger into his mouth, and then licked the grease and mayonnaise—_real_ mayo—off his fingers. "That was one hell of a gig." He admitted, lying back on the bed. He folded his arms behind his head. "It was like cliffhanger after cliffhanger. Gave me one hell of a headache."

"I don't know… I'd just like to know _why_." After he finished his burger, Sam collected their trash, crumbling the foil into balls. He dropped them into a wastebasket that looked like it hadn't been cleaned out since the revolutionary war. Really, you can only cram down trash so many times. "How could anyone do such a thing to a _baby_—their baby _brother_?"

"Don't know, Sammy, but just think how lucky you were to get _me_."

"You sold my toys to buy firecrackers when I was eight."

Dean propped himself up on his elbows. "Well, gee, sorry, I was comparing me to a kid who _drowned_ his brother, but I guess you have a valid point."

"And you made me go bald."

"Oh, shut up, now that one, that was _funny_."

"And you gave me a paintball, and told me it was filled with candy so when I put it in my mouth and bit down into it…"

Dean waved a finger at him. "No, _you_ assumed that, and dad nearly killed _me_ when you went crying to him, red paint oozing from your mouth."

"Strangely enough, all things considered, you're one hell of an older brother." Sam felt the need to end the conversation before he pissed off Dean, who could mention the time—just a few months ago—when Sam shot him in the chest—with rock salt—and he really didn't want to feel that guilt right now.

"_All things considered_? Go scrub the toilet. With _your_ toothbrush."

Sam ignored that, and waved a hand at him. "Hey, you know, Drew told Corinne that we assaulted him with toothpaste and flashlights?"

Dean rubbed at his chin. "That's right. I should've gotten her to reimburse us for the toothpaste, too! Stuff doesn't come cheap you know…"

And in response, Sam picked up the pillow off his bed, and chucked it at Dean's head. Dean, luckily, caught it with his _mouth_, and whipped it right back. Sam ducked, sliding off the bed as it whizzed past his head. Yawning, he sat on the ground, cross-legged.

"Hey, Dean?" He waited for his brother to answer before he went on, staring down at his hands. "When we were in the house, and the ceiling caved in… I… while I was unconscious, I saw it. I mean, I saw what had happened, with Drew, you know?" He heard the springs in the bed as Dean pushed himself up so he was now sitting. "It felt so real, like I was actually there, watching it, standing there…" He lifted his gaze up at Dean's tired face, wondering what he'd say.

"So, what, you're getting just any old premonitions now? Give it a rest, Phoebe." But the concern was there, and that was enough. He smiled to himself, and from the corner of his eye, he saw their father's diary—journal, which had been neglected lately, and he picked it up, flipping through the pages for the hell of it.

In a twist of ironic fate, he managed to get a paper cut, and jumped slightly, surprised. "Ouch." He hissed, shaking his hand like it would help. Dean looked down at him, the side of his lips curved into a sly smile. "Take it like a man."

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

The boys ended up staying one last night before they had enough, and would rather do more flower boy deliveries than stay in the city any longer than they had to. Dean rolled his clothes into balls and stuffed them into a duffel bag, while Sam packed up various items—the laptop, their knives, bathroom supplies, and the like.

"Sure you don't want to stay another night? I read in the paper that there's another house where—" With the said duffel bag thrown over one shoulder, Dean walked past Sam, shoving him back onto the bed before he could finish his sentence. Grinning, he got right back up, and was at Dean's heels.

"We? Are done with haunted houses, asylums, barns, caves, whatever—unless it involves a haunted strip club where—"

"_Anyway_, I was thinking that now might be good for a vacation." Sam had to maintain a quick pace to keep up with Dean as his brother loaded the car with their stuff. Was he ever in a hurry to shag ass. "_Right_?" Dean gave him a look like he had just grown a third eye and said—"this _was_ our vacation, genius." "Well, then, excuse me if I don't want to go over the scrapbook of memories for this one anytime soon."

"Cool it, smart-ass." He closed the lid of the trunk. "I happen to know where we're heading next. It's time you faced your biggest demon yet."

Sam's breath caught in his throat as he eyed his brother suspiciously. "W-what do you mean? Where are we going?"

Dean started heading back to their room for the last of their stuff. He looked behind his shoulder at the curious brunette. "To the barber." Sam's face deadpanned. "Oh, come on, a little snipping and maybe your world will get seventy percent of lighting back. Dude, how the hell do you see?"

"With my eyes—I do _not_ need a haircut." Oh, boy, he was squinting out blazing hot daggers at Dean from behind his bangs.

"But I hear Sweeney Todd is one hell of a—"

"Dean!"

"I'm just joshing you, Sammy. I'm pretty sure that mop of yours is the power source of all that is Sam." He raised a hand, ruffling Sam's hair. "Jesus Sam, no wonder we can't find dad—he's probably camping up in here with Jimmy Hoffa and—_oof_!" He exhaled sharply when he received a jab in the side.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"Hey Sam, if you could be any X-Men, who would you be?" It didn't take long for Dean's mouth to shoot off when they left Scranton. Now it was time for miles and miles of cows and horses. When Sam hadn't bother with an answer, he went on. "You're kind of like the Beast, only more hairy, or maybe you're Rogue, always sucking the fun out of everything."

Sam sighed, rolling down the window. "Jerk. And who are you? Wolverine?"

"Wolverine? Please, that guy's a midget. Even you could step on him without even noticing." He kept one hand on the steering wheel as he used his other hand to reach into a pocket and pull out a Hershey's Kiss. They stopped by Corinne's house to check up and say a few last words before they left, and the candy dish had been sitting there, calling out to him.

"There's Gambit." Sam couldn't help but scoff. Why was he partaking in this conversation? It was ridiculous. "He's a charmer, isn't he?" Dean nodded, like he's considered it before.

"Sure, but his eyes. Some chicks may dig it, but hey, some chicks also dig a little S&M, but that doesn't mean—"

"_OK_. There's Cyclops, but you won't go for that. You'd always have to wear glasses, and then "chicks" wouldn't—"

"Fall in love with my soulful, beautiful eyes?"

"See how grossly long your eyelashes are."

Dean looked like he'd been slapped. He reached for his cell phone that was placed between the seats and flipped it open. "What's that? Oh? Okay, hold on, please." He said, and then looked pointedly over at his brother. "It's for you, it's jealousy, but don't flirt with it for too long, 'cause envy's waitin' on the other line."

Sam groaned, rolling his eyes. As much as he would usually feel annoyed right now, he just really didn't. He didn't miss the silence from the past week at all, and for now, he was only too happy to hear Dean talk, babble, and be an asshole. Gosh, he never thought he'd miss those oh so adoring qualities, but he had, so for now, he'd put up with the unusually talkative Dean…

… For a few more miles, anyway—after that, everything is fair game.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

**THE END**


End file.
